


Silence and Sound

by agenthill



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, F/F, Fluff and Angst, Getting Together, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-04
Updated: 2017-12-11
Packaged: 2018-12-11 06:13:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 40,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11708505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agenthill/pseuds/agenthill
Summary: Safety is relative.  Control is an illusion.  Death is inevitable.  The future is uncertain.  Fate is predetermined.  These are the lessons humanity learned in the Omnic Crisis, five immutable truths.  They govern all life, and nothing, and no one, can break them.Or,Fareeha and Angela grow up, come into their own, meet each other, fall in love, and fight desperately to do the impossible and to defy fate.





	1. NULLA

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Radycat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Radycat/gifts).



> So this is an AU... because it was supposed to be for Rady's birthday... and she loves AUs so... it had to be one.
> 
> ILY Rady. Happy MUCH BELATED birthday!

INTRODUCTION

_On certainty_

# NULLA.

There are few things in life which are certain, particularly for those living in the wake of the Omnic Crisis.  One of them is this: safety is relative.  One of them is this: control is an illusion.  One of the is this: death is inevitable.  One of them is this: the future is uncertain.  And one of them, one of them is a bit different.  One of them is this: every person, be they Omnic or human, is born with a set number of words to speak, the total number of which is never to be exceeded in their lifetime.  The why of this is uncertain, but like so many other things, it has always been, and will always be, insofar as anyone knows.  Few dare to question the rare constants which exist in their world.

It can be difficult to ascertain the exact number of words a person will speak in their lifetime, but one can usually gauge, though speaking with others one loves, how much longer one might expect to live, for it is only when speaking with loved ones that the words begin to take on a character, become bright, light, and quick, or sharp, probing, and angry.  With the people one loves, there is a sense of the number of words one has left to speak with one another, felt in how easily the words come, and how quickly.  If it is difficult to speak, if there is little to say, then one can safely assume that, for whatever reason, their dialogue with the other party will be ended soon.

(Some curse this knowledge, the weight of dread that comes with it, the heaviness of inevitability—but is it not gentler this way?  Is it not kinder to know, to be granted this finality?  Is it not better to see the end, and to face it head on?)

Most often, this end means death, but sometimes it is as simple as a parting of the ways, as simple as a falling out, as simple as a promise, unfulfilled, to visit next time one is back in town.  For all the things which one may be certain of, there remains far more uncertainty in the world.

Before these uncertain endings, however, there must be equally uncertain beginnings.  Upon first speaking to a person one loves, or will come to love, one can gain a sense of their future, can ascertain how many words one will speak to them, and from there, how long one will be in their life.  For lovers, this is often important—how long will the relationship last?  If it is doomed to failure, then one might wish to avoid a serious commitment—and friends, too, prize the knowledge, but for none s it more important than for parents.  Not all parents can get a sense of their child’s words, at birth, and this is often cause for despair.  Either the child shall die before ever speaking, or there shall be no love between them—and who can say which is worse?  For most parents (or builders, should the person who made a given Omnic prefer the term), it is different.  There is a sense, immediately, of how many words will be spoken between parent and child, and this can be cause for great joy or equally great concern.  An abundance of words, considered preferable, is an indication that a child will likely live a long life, and a dearth is seen as an indicator of premature death.  Such is not always the case, but there are few enough exceptions, far enough between, that the general guideline has come to be viewed as fact, as is the case with many such things.

 

## i.

When Angela Ziegler is born, approximately five years before the Omnic Crisis begins, her parents weep.  There are few words shared among them, far too few for a lifetime, or even a childhood.  Were it only one of them who sensed this lack, this want of words, the Zieglers might assume that it is not their daughter who will die, but one of her parents.  This is not the case, however, and, erroneously, the Zieglers believe that their daughter’s life will be all too short.

(After all, why would they assume that both of them shall die?  The death of the one seems more likely in a world which is still naïve, still unsullied by the Omnic Crisis.  It is a simpler time, and tragedy is personal, not widespread.  Personal, like the death of a child.)

Knowing, or believing they know, that their child will not live long, the Zieglers pray for her life, pray that a mistake has been made, pray that their god takes them, instead, and leaves their daughter.  It is a cruel wish, that their child be orphaned, and left alone in a world where no one who loves her might protect her, and it is a selfish one, that she and she alone might endure the pain of both of them, might suffer through loss such that they do not, but it is a sincere wish, and the only option they believe is available to them.  Theirs is not a merciful god, and always there is something which must be given, or at least offered, so that something else might be gained.  So it is that the Zieglers often the only truly valuable thing which they possess: their lives.

They pray until night passes into day and, when they are done, they take Angela home and resolve to love her as deeply as they can in what little time they have with her.

 

## ii.

Five years later, across the Mediterranean, Fareeha Amari is born into a different world.  Three months prior, the Omnic Crisis began, and now an era which seemed so peaceful, so still, is thrown into chaos.  It is no longer certain who shall live, and show shall die, with each day more bloody than the last.

Among the soldiers with whom Ana has trained, words drop by the day.  They are not, most of them, long for this world.  On the Eastern Front, death comes swiftly, and often.  The squad to which Ana was assigned at the beginning of the year have all been killed, and Ana should be among them—would be, if not for her daughter.  This is the world into which Fareeha is born, all bright lights and loud sounds, death always lurking just around the corner.  It is nothing like Angela’s birth, in a quiet and peaceful village before the war, would have nothing in common with it at all, were it not for the crying.

Ana, too, cries when her daughter is born.

For months, her world has been filled with the sights and sounds of war, even if she herself has not been a direct participant.  Gruesome footage fills the local news, and phone calls to friends are interrupted by the sound of heavy artillery in the distance.  When she closes her eyes, she sees the war and part of her—part of her wishes she was there, and not here, waiting for her child to be born.  It has haunted her, has kept her awake and now, there is a moment of stillness, of silence.

She pauses, for a moment, in the instant after Fareeha’s birth, before she speaks her name and weeps.  Fareeha, she names her, happiness, and thanks Allah, for between Fareeha and herself there are many words, enough to last them both for a lifetime.

Fareeha will live, and so will Ana.  Together, they will survive this.  It is enough.


	2. I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updating right on time! I almost forgot, though.

PART ONE

_Safety is relative_

# I.

Even at the beginning of the Omnic Crisis there is still, for come, a sense of peace, of disbelief.  While they may acknowledge that yes, there is a war, and yes, some people are in danger, this does not mean that most people feel personally threatened, for the truth is this: for as long as humanity has existed, there has been a war.  Peace has only ever been relative; for somewhere, for someone, the fight has always continued, and it always will.  So it is that when the reports of rogue Omnics begin to hit the news, and the first casualties of the war are reported, much of humanity turns a blind eye.

(Some, of course, do not.  Some see the actions of what are, in the beginning, very few Omnics in seemingly isolated incidents, and immediately take them as evidence of what they have believed all along—that Omnics are dangerous, and not to be trusted—and respond accordingly.  But they are few, and far between, and although they are perhaps right in this instance, they have invoked an end to life as all know it far too many times to be heeded when, at last, they are correct.  In the beginning, they are ignored, and thought to be wrong.  Later, they will wish that they were.)

For most people, the beginning of the Omnic Crisis is much like any other war or natural disaster before it, something they see on the news, discuss the tragedy of over dinner, and forget about in a few months when it no longer makes headlines, for a war happening far away and hurting people whom they do not know is, in the end, no true tragedy for them, for tragedy is yet personal in these days.

So, although it is that the world watches the broadcasts of the beginning of the Omnic Crisis, they do so not with bated breath, or a sense of encroaching horror, but with a sense of detachment, from the relative safety of their own homes.  For the most part, they think little of it, as they go about their days in much the same manner as they always have, sparing only the occasional _There but for the grace of God go I_ when they think of the Omnic Crisis, and its victims, their lives proceeding apace.

They do not stop to wonder when or where it has been said that God is graceful, do not for a moment consider that theirs is a world which has spared neither the faithful nor the faithless.

 

## i.

The Zieglers know, of course, that religiosity does not spare one pain, not in this life, and does not shield one from suffering, but rather gives one some means of coping with such.  Being Jewish has guaranteed that they hold no illusions about the ability of faithfulness, of prayer, to protect them from danger.  However, that same faith has taught them that they need not fear adversity.  They have suffered, as a people, have endured, survived, thrived, and they can do so again—will, if need be—and so, unlike so many others, the Zieglers never once pray that they shall be unaffected.  Either they will, or they will not, and their God will provide for their people a means to survive, in any case.

So what need have they to worry for their safety?  What need have they to fear, particularly when the fighting is far, far from their homes, in countries they have never—will never have—visited?  Even _if_ Switzerland were in danger, if it had a large Omnic population or an Omnium of its own, the Zieglers live in the country, far from the cities, which tend to be targeted in such attacks.

In the beginning of the Omnic Crisis, the Zieglers feel safe—or feel, at least, that the danger of an attack by Omnics is a secondary concern.

Their primary concern is, of course, Angela, whom they know will die young, even if they know not why.  They leave their quiet village to take her in to doctors, specialists, across the country, in the hopes that one of them will find something wrong, will find an answer as to why a child as active and talkative as Angela has so few words remaining.  The doctors’ answers are all the same: other than a slight curvature to her spine, and deplorable eyesight, Angela is perfectly healthy, and that barring an accident, there is no reason why she should not live a long and happy life.

So it comes to pass that Angela, whose nature is, in truth, somewhat precocious and unsuited to it, comes to live the childhood of a sickly girl, passed from doctor to doctor, enduring test after test, kept indoors and under watch for her safety.  To amuse herself, she reads books, and, in the rare instance when her mother’s eyes are turned away from her, she uses her tablet to research, instead, the things she has heard the doctors saying to her parents in hushed whispers.  This is how Angela comes to develop an interest in medicine, and her independent study combined with a natural aptitude for learning puts her far ahead of her peers in the classroom.  Born under and into the specter of death, Angela does not fear it, and does not hesitate to discuss what she has learned with anyone, despite the taboo surrounding wasted words.

The Zieglers wish their daughter did not speak so often, that she might live longer, but discussions of physiology and biochemistry seem to bring their daughter joy, and they do not begrudge her some small happiness in her brief life, and so they listen as she talks to them, words quick and gentle, like the fluttering of a butterfly’s wings, resting only when she alights, briefly, on some new object of interest, before they are once again tumbling out of her as quickly as she can speak them.

What she says reveals a technical knowledge far beyond her parents’, and the words could be those of an adult, but for the manner in which they are spoken.

(Listening to her, her father wonders if they have not robbed her of having a full childhood a second time in their attempt to save her.)

It is while Angela is speaking in this way, discussing vestigial organs and what they reveal about life which came before us, that her mother first sees footage from the Omnic Crisis play on a holovid.  For a moment, her attention is torn from Angela as she witnesses the destruction, hears the screams of the dying before a bright light fills the screen and the feed cuts out.

Not for a moment does consider how the Omnic Crisis might impact Angela, with whom she knows she has little time left, but she does, instead, spare a thought to the child still in her womb, whose life will surely be shaped by growing up in such a world as they live in, where peace seems a distant hope.

Never once does she imagine that it shall be Angela who survives the Omnic Crisis, Angela whose innocence is ripped away, Angela who learns what it means to live in a world which sees safety as only ever relative—for at the time, safety is absolute.  At the time, there is no reason to suspect that they are in any danger.  At the time, it seems that the Omnic Crisis will never find them, hidden away from the rest of the world as they are in their quiet mountain village.

Not a thought is spared to Angela’s future, because the absolute nature of the world has already dictated that she _shall_ die.  It does not matter what her parents do, or where they go, she is in no more danger than she is anywhere else.

Safety is, in those days, absolute, and so, too, is risk.  Never once do her parents suspect that they might have been wrong about which of them shall die.

After all, why would anyone suspect that war would come to Switzerland?

 

## ii.

Death and war are not such distant concepts in the Amari household.  How could they be, when the Amari legacy is one of soldiers, of pitched battles, of heroic sacrifice?  How could they be, when Ana is already on the front lines, combatting the Omnic Crisis directly?  How could they be, when the Omnic Crisis is already so near to their home?

While others, elsewhere, have the option of ignoring the Omnic Crisis, of turning a blind eye, of switching off holovids when the news becomes too overwhelming to bear, too depressing, too worrying, too gory, too much, too much, _too much_ , such is not a luxury afforded to those in Egypt, for whom the Omnic Crisis is already far too close to home.  Let the rest of the world look away; they will not, cannot flinch from this.

(Years later, historians will ask: _If the Omnic Crisis had begun in the West, would the world have reacted differently?_ Others will say: _Perhaps that is why it began where it did._   Still others will ask if that matters, if things have changed at all since, if the same might not happen all over again in the present day.)

For the time being, it does not matter what the world thinks, or will think, for it seems as if the Omnic Crisis is contained in Egypt, in Colombia, and in Siberia.  Soldiers like Ana Amari, the world’s finest, believe that they can keep the threat at bay.  If the world ignores their plight, gives lip service to assistance, ignores the treaties they have made and the promises they ought to keep—what has changed?  Always, before, they have had only themselves to rely on; nothing is different now.  Perhaps their suffering might be eased with outside help, perhaps fewer lives would be lost, perhaps the war would be over sooner—but perhaps things would be just as difficult, and as long, with as many soldiers lost, the only change the commander under which they served.

There is little point dwelling on hypotheticals, not when one is certain that one is safe, as Ana is; then, hypotheticals are only a distraction, only something which stand in the way of completing another mission and returning home to her daughter.

For Ana is certain of her safety, knows she had decades more to live from the number of words she and Fareeha, who is now a toddler, share.  Between them, they have world enough, and time, so she tells herself that she does not fear battle, does not fear death, as she works to secure a calmer, more peaceful future for her daughter to grow up in.

On the days when, despite her outward confidence, the fear does creep in, nearly paralyzing her, she calms herself by thinking of her latest call to Fareeha, whose words, although still disjointed and clipped, carry the authority all Amari are heir to, sounding like little orders as they roll off of her tongue.  It is all too easy to imagine that she will be a brilliant commander one day, if she wishes it.

(From a child, words spoken with such authority, such gravity, are funny, are something to be recorded, with the intent to laugh about them together when her child is grown; in fifteen years, when Fareeha declares in that same tone her intent to enlist, they will not be so amusing, and Ana will look back and wonder if she encouraged it, somehow, if she could have known the path her daughter was already heading down, if she might have discouraged Fareeha, rather than finding her speech patterns amusing.  For now, however, her words are simply words, innocent ones—or, not simply, for they hold in their weight, in their number, a promise, an expectation, a hope for a long future between them.)

When Ana most needs hope, Fareeha provides it, and even as she witnesses the unfolding Omnic Crisis firsthand, it is not often that Ana fears for her safety, or doubts that she has a future beyond it, for when she was in the most danger, when her entire unit was being killed, Fareeha was born, and her words offered a glimpse at a future beyond the Omnic Crisis, when Ana need not worry about matters of life and death, or the morality of her actions, and can enjoy time with her daughter, can while away the hours just speaking, without worry that her words are wasted, for she has more than enough of them—a gift few are granted.

When Fareeha was born, Ana thanked Allah, and she has not stopped being thankful since, for Fareeha is a promise, and a blessing, both in one. 

In the beginning, Fareeha’s words seem like certainty in an uncertain world, seem like a guarantee that Ana shall have a future—that both of them shall.  In the beginning, no one knows how few things are truly certain.  In the beginning, it is believed that safety can be absolute, for words are a promise, immutable.

But one of the first lessons one learns in a post-Omnic Crisis world is this: safety is relative.

For all that Ana Amari believes that she is safe, that something so simple as words might guarantee her safety, for all that she acts accordingly, she is wrong.  Words, destiny, love—none of these things could protect her from gunfire, none of these things are proof she is safe.

Safety is relative, and nothing is guaranteed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter we actually progress to Fareeha and Angela's POV, as they're getting older. 
> 
> Still quite a while to go until they meet, however. ~23 years from the end of section ii, at which point they will be 25 and 30. It's worth it though, trust me.


	3. II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another week, another chapter.

PART ONE

_Safety is relative._

 

# II.

Whatever illusions people may have entertained about the Omnic Crisis being minor or contained are shattered when the first of the French Omniums falls.

The Omnic Crisis is, then, undoubtedly spreading, and what is more, it is spreading to places which the international news media will make note of, places for which there are relief funds, and outpourings of performative public grief, and places the loss of which draws he attention of the United Nations Security Council, and of one Under-Secretary General Adawe in particular.

Of course, for the victims, both in France and elsewhere, it is little consolation that any of these things is the case.  News coverage cannot bring back the dead, aid is poorly distributed, and the UN is unprepared to deal with a crisis so sever as this.  The absolute safety once held is gone, replaced with a realization that no one is ever truly safe, only relatively so, for the time being.

In truth, Overwatch is not made to guarantee safety, is not created to protect the people (already, those who have the privilege to decide such have concluded that it is a lost cause, that humanity _will_ fall—otherwise, they would have been a sight more concerned by the spending required to fund the Overwatch initiative), but instead it is created to provide that small bit of hope , to allow those not immediately in the path of Omnic forces to believe they are _relatively_ safe, with the newly-formed Overwatch Strike Team watching out for them.

That the program is not intended to be successful is not a secret from its members, but they join anyway, because there is no better chance than this, because they believe hope to have value in times such as these, because they do not believe they will die.  They join, and they fight, as if each day is their last, as if they truly are the last, best hope of humankind, as if their loss would mean the end to all things, and is not merely a symbolic one, and slowly, _slowly_ , they begin to believe in Overwatch, in each other, in a future for humanity. 

Where Overwatch goes, there is safety to be had, is a chance at life for those civilians who thought they faced a certain death.

Of course, they cannot save everyone—sometimes, they arrive too late, and lives are lost in the thousands, the tens of thousands, the hundreds of thousands before they are able to repel the threat.  They are not infallible, are not a guarantee of survival.  They suffer great losses and costly defeats.

Lucerne is one such occasion.  Tripoli is another.

## i.

When the Zieglers’ second child is born, the news is worse than the birth of their first.  With this daughter, they share no words, and unlike Angela, she is ill, so much so that they find themselves forced to move into the city, that she might receive the treatment she needs.

They do not need to explain to Angela why this is, for Angela knows already her sister’s prognosis—the better part of seven years spent in and out of doctor’s offices has taught her well.

Despite the signs, the Zieglers do not doubt their safety, believing that their proximity to the headquarters of Overwatch will protect them, that they are safer there than they would be anywhere else.

(If one were to ask any authority at the time if this were the case, they likely would agree.  In fact, citizens around the globe were encouraged, in the second phase of the Omnic Crisis, to concentrate in population centers, to make it easier for Overwatch forces to defend as many people as possible at once.  Later, historians will repeat this assertion with some irony in their tone, for they know what follows, but it is the soundest advice of the time which the Zieglers follow.)

So it is that when the news comes of a breach in the Schweizer Reduit, and authorities recommend a retreat towards the Jura Mountains, the Zieglers, like so many others, do not go.  They see the breach as no surprise, given the decommissioning efforts at the beginning of the century, and they are not too concerned by the turn of events.

After all, they have Overwatch to protect them.

Busy as they are with caring for the baby, who grows sicker by the day, it is easy to understand how the Zieglers might notice only the decrease in their words with their older daughter, and not with one another.

(Or, perhaps, they knew, and still they said nothing to Angela, wishing for her last memories of them to be as happy as possible.  Perhaps they did know, and they bore the suffering of knowing in silence, wishing to shield their eldest daughter from the pain of their passing for as long as possible.  Perhaps they did know, but feared giving voice to the truth.  Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps… perhaps it did not, does not matter, for Angela will never learn the truth either way.)

Whatever it is they know, the Zieglers are unwilling, or, perhaps, given the baby’s health, unable to evacuate when the order comes.  Instead, they stay in Lucerne, in the shadow of Overwatch’s protection, and they hope that they are safe enough, for the time being, hope that they might stay only a little longer.

When the second order comes, that children between the ages of three and sixteen are to be sent to safety with or without their parents or guardians, the Zieglers acquiesce, and agree to bring Angela to the train station.  Angela, who has grown up knowing—or thinking she knows—that she will die young, does her best to put on a brave face so as not to upset her parents.  Already, she has lived longer than the baby will, and so she will not complain.

On the ride to the train station—for air travel is forbidden, given an increase in anti-aircraft attacks by Omnic forces—none of them speaks.  Angela will never know if her parents were silent from guilt or fear, but she herself does not speak, then, for she wishes her last words to be spoken to them at the station.

So it is that she says her last words just before the train pulls a way, their weight far heavier than her butterfly light words a scant year and a half before.  She tells them that she loves them, and she thinks that these are the last words she will ever speak, for she has no intention at all of speaking on the train, not intention of wasting words which will feel like nothing, which will sit heavy in her lungs like a stone in soup, she has no intention of ever speaking another word, for she will never live to feel love for anyone else, so why would she even try?

Her parents tell her to _Stay strong, Angel_ _ï,_ and she will turn these words over and over in her mind in the years to come, will wonder if they meant strong in the face of her death or their own, will wonder how much they knew, and when, and why, if they did, they said nothing to her of what was to come.

As the train pulls out of the station, Angela Ziegler makes peace with her death, content in the knowledge that her parents will live, and that in a few years’ time there might come another Ziegler baby—not to replace her, but to help them heal.  Her family, her people, will survive this, even if she does not.  That which matters most to her is safe.

Content as anyone could be with such a situation, Angela is asleep before the city is fully out of view.

By the time she wakes, a new kind of Omnic, more dangerous than any before it, has lain waste to Lucerne.  She and the other unaccompanied children are taken aside and told, one by one by their new caretakers what has happened.

Angela knows what they will say before they can tell her, knows by the face adults make when discussing death with children, but still she does not believe it.  Her parents were meant to live, and she to die; they were safe, at home, and she far from Overwatch, their defenders.

Yet she lives, and they do not, for safety is relative and not absolute.

Angela has no words to say, when she learns this, and does not speak again for more than a year.

 

## ii.

Despite living with a soldier, in a country with was one of the first fronts in the Omnic Crisis, Fareeha’s education about mortality is far less direct than is Angela’s.  One day, she believes that the number of words she has promises a future, is something that can guarantee her mother safety, and the next—she does not.  All of this happens in the night without a single thing being _done_ to Fareeha.

Instead, it is Ana’s suffering through which Fareeha learns, even as her mother attempts to shield her from the realities of the war, from the reality of what Overwatch is, and to put on a brave face.

In the end, Ana need not say anything aloud to reveal the truth to Fareeha, need not even directly address her at all.

Fareeha learns about mortality through a conversation, not one that she is a part of, or one that she hears, but one which shapes her all the same.

The hour is late, and her mother is home, if briefly, put on mandatory leave for a week following—something; Fareeha is not allowed to know what.  It is returning to bed from a trip to the bathroom that Fareeha sees her mother is still awake, that her light is on and her door cracked open.  Peeking through the crack before she enters, Fareeha sees that her mother is in the midst of a conversation.

Given the hour of the night, there is only one likely candidate to whom Ana is signing, and so Fareeha very nearly barges in to join the holocall as well, before she sees the manner in which her mother’s signs are formed, sees the shaking hands, the choppy motions which have replaced a usual steadiness and fluidity.

Fareeha sees, and she knows better than to intrude, knows that this conversation is not meant for her—but she also sees the sign for her name, and so she cannot quite resist the urge to stay, and to watch.

From where she stands in the dark hallway, Fareeha cannot make out the entire conversation, can only see her mother’s half of it, but what she is able to see is more than enough.

Until the Omnic Crisis ends, Fareeha is to live with her father in Canada, where she will be safe—for no longer does her mother believe her to be safe here, despite what she has always claimed to be the case, that the volume of words between them is a guarantee of their future, is absolute, is immutable.

For whatever reason, that truth is no longer enough for her mother, is no longer sufficient, in her mind, to guarantee Fareeha’s safety, and for the first time in her brief life Fareeha Amari knows true fear.

She may be too young, yet, to comprehend the gravity of Ana’s statement that words alone cannot be trusted, but what she does know is this: her mother’s safety has always been, in some way, tied to her own, so if she is in danger then so, too, must her mother be.

In a sudden, and strange, reversal of roles, Fareeha finds herself responsible for guaranteeing her mother’s safety.

(Years later, she will dare to ask what changed, and Ana will tell her: _I gave the order to retreat, and felt the words I shared with Reinhardt grow, and those I shared with Liao shrank.  I realized the future was not set in stone.  I learned that fates might be changed—and if theirs could, why not mine and yours?_ But Fareeha does not ask the question for another forty years, and the knowledge is nearly lost with Ana.)

No longer does Fareeha’s personal safety seem a guarantee, and the safety of her country has always been in question, and she realizes, then if not in so many words, what all who survive the Omnic Crisis will eventually learn: safety is relative.

In the case of Fareeha, the lesson is learned thus: she is the proof that her mother may yet survive the Omnic Crisis—but she is in danger.  If she dies, so, too, does the only proof of her mother’s safety, and so, in this way, her mother’s safety might be seen as existing relative to her own.

It is a crude understanding of a greater truth, a small personal application of something so much larger than herself, and her family, but Fareeha is young, yet, to truly understand what is happening around her.

Yet, despite her youth, Fareeha accepts responsibility for protecting her mother’s life, and does so with authority, voice as strong and resolved as any adult’s when, two days later, she agrees to go and live with her father.

Even then, at five years old, Fareeha is willing to make sacrifices to protect those whom she loves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ana & Fareeha's father sign because he's deaf. Not for any symbolic reason or anything I just wrote him as deaf in my other series so he is here too.


	4. III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i almost forgot to post this bc i got invited to a "quick lunch" with friends and it lasted five fucking hours and also it was an entire friendgroup aka fourteen of us and im dead now

PART ONE

_Safety is relative._

 

# III.

As the Omnic Crisis begins to wind down, a sense of relative safety begins to return to much of the world.  Even if they will never feel as secures as they did before the Omnic Crisis began, most once again rest easy in the feeling that perhaps there is danger for some people, somewhere in the world, but that place is not where they are, in that moment, which is enough for them.

Individuals can never forget the pain they endured during the Omnic Crisis, but they are far too eager to let fall to the wayside what lessons they learned in empathy, in shared experiences with their fellow man.

(It is easier, then, to pretend that the war is over, that violence is behind them, easy to think they can set aside the collective cultural wounds, the inherited traumas that such an event invites.  In the future, some will argue that this blinded them to what was to come.  Others will say it is the only way anyone could have survived what they did.)

Overwatch has saved humanity, never mind the countries from whom Overwatch’s help was too little, too late.  Overwatch has saved humanity and now, for as long as Overwatch is protecting them, they are safe, for although safety is relative, and they _know_ this now, for all that their security is conditional, many falsely believe that the condition is the existence of Overwatch itself.

They forget what happened in Lucerne, in Jakarta, in Tripoli; they forget, or they justify, or they dismiss, but the truth is this: if Overwatch could not save everyone then, there is no reason to believe they might yet be able to do so now.

 

## i.

Unlike much of the world, Angela Ziegler does not believe in the relative safety of Overwatch; when she needed them most, they failed her, and now she is the last Ziegler alive—and it is impossible for her to know for how long, for none of the people to whom she has spoken in the five years following her parents’ deaths is someone to whom she has any sort of connection.

It is, therefore, a very lonely time for her, even as the rest of the world begins to celebrate an end to war.  Textbooks, she finds, keep her better company than many real people—but never does she allow the bitterness of flat, grey words to keep her from speaking.

Instead, she speaks as often as she can, to anyone she can, an act of defiance, a response to whoever, whatever, left her like this—with words left to speak but no one of consequence to speak them to.

(Or so she told herself, at the time.  The truth, as she will later admit, was far simpler.  Yes, she was angry at a god she did not know if she believed in, and yes, every word she spoke was an affirmation that she survived, that she was alive, and nothing and no one had yet killed her, but why she truly did it was this: she hoped against hope that with one of the people to whom she spoke she would find join in words again, would find a connection.  What she wanted was to no longer be alone, to find friends, to find _family._ But, of course, no such persons were forthcoming.)

She learns, through this near-constant speaking, to resolve conflicts peacefully, without harm done to any parties, and is glad for it. 

In her dreams she can still hear Lucerne the night before her departure: the eerie silence as all remaining people stayed indoors, and what animals may once have roamed already fled, or worse, the muted sounds of her parents’ urgent discussion one room over, the subject of which she failed to note, and in the distance, the rumbling, like distant thunder, of Omnic troops amassing outside of the city.  

In her dreams, Angela never escapes warfare, and so she is glad for the chance to speak, to absolve things as peacefully as she might, for she abhors violence, and all it has taken from her.

This habit of loquaciousness means that, eventually, Angela finds herself assigned a job, in the tent village in which she lives.  Because she knows nearly everyone, and because her own independent study has ensured that she is finished with all the schooling which can be provided to her, for the time being, she is asked to run errands for one of the doctors assigned to their camp, reducing demands on her time.

It is an advantageous arrangement for Angela, as well, who intends to go to medical school, and relishes any experience she can get. 

What she does not expect, however, is that through such work she will finally find joy in speaking again, and with it, a purpose.

It is already determined, by the time he finds himself in the medical tent, that Angela’s rabbi is going to die, for he has no words left for his wife, nor the doctor, nor his friends, nor anyone else besides.  When his wife explains his symptoms, the diagnosis is mere formality—all who know him know that today is the day he will die, and the doctor is busy with other patients who might be treated.  Angela is assigned only to ease his suffering.

He is at peace with his death, of so he has said, but Angela knows better, or thinks that she does.  After all, he has spoken to her at great lengths about Judaism and medical ethics, has explained to her the practical application of Pikuach Nefesh in the absence of an order not to resuscitate, and Angela thinks it too specific to be religious guidance aimed towards a hypothetical future career in medicine.  She hears his words, and she knows the truth: even he, the most pious of people she has met, fears death, and wishes her to fight for his life.

So when the time comes, and his heart stops beating, she does not note time of death, but instead compresses his chest, breathes air into his lungs, and wills his heart to beat, as if she did not already know his fate.  There is little point, she knows, in doing so, but she does it because it is his wish, and—more selfishly—because she, too, fears death, and fate, and the certainty that she will never love anyone she presently knows, can never come to love them, and is perhaps fated to live the rest of her life this way.

She wills him to live, even as she does not believe It possible, wills life back into him with every pump of her arms, every breath from her lungs, every beat of her own heart, and then, suddenly, she wills it no longer, for it is _so._   His eyes move again, his lungs inflate themselves, his heart beats steadily beneath her trembling hands, and she has done it, has proven she can defy fate, if only someone is there to save her when she needs them to do so.

Then, another impossible thing: he speaks, and Angela can _feel_ it, can feel his speech just as she could her parents’.

(Later, Angela will learn that this is not a mutual feeling, that saving a life grants her—and only her—the ability to feel her patients’ words, but in the moment she believes she has found someone who loves her, or could.)

She hears the words he speaks to her, feels them, and learns this: safety may be relative, but a timely medical intervention is sufficient to negate this.  If she can find a way to ensure that extraordinary means are used on herself, as well, then she has a chance to live, to find more people who might love her, to save others from the fear and suffering she has endured.

Safety is relative, but that is not so significant as she thought.

 

## ii. 

Long before the rest of the world, Fareeha is told a secret: Overwatch cannot save everyone, for it was never meant to. It is her father who tells her this, one day, when she proudly presents him with a report she wrote about her mother’s work for the organization, and he does it not out of cruelty, but to warn her.

(He saw, even then, the path she was going down. He saw that she would follow her mother, and feared what it meant, for all of them.)

It is a difficult truth to learn, and so her father is careful when he teaches it to her.

He does not teach her all at once, does not force her to confront that which is unjust in the world suddenly, but instead lets her learn over time. Never does he spare her the harsher details of his lesson, never does he sugarcoat things—if Fareeha is going to believe what she does, if she is truly interested in following in her mother's footsteps, she need not be spared the truth—but it is a lesson easier learned in pieces.

The lesson is this: everyone is in danger if no one cares to protect them.

Such a lesson is easily borne out by history, and it is there he begins. If she is to idolize Overwatch, if she is to dedicate herself to them, then she must know where they came from, must know their history. Now, yes, he could not fault anyone for joining them, not when they are humanity's last, best hope—but eight, nine years in the future, when she is old enough to enlist, he hopes that there will be peace, and people will have the luxury of choosing how best to create a change in the world.

So he begins with the founding of the United Nations, those who would police the world—and, although he does not know it yet, those who will police those who would police the world—tells her of what it is they were formed, and how, tells her which nations were granted privilege above others from the start, and which nations languished, unrecognized, because those in power deemed them not enough. He tells her of what good the organization did—and what bad, all in the name of the "greater good."

For whom, she begins to wonder, is the greater good? Not for her ancestors, surely, not on her father's side or her mother's. Whom would she protect, from within Overwatch, whom would she be allowed to?

He tells her, then, more current things, tells her about her mother's frustrations with the prioritization of strikes—based as they are in Switzerland, it is easier for Overwatch to reach European cities in a timely manner, which makes for a convenient excuse when Omnics attack two cities at once.

(Later, Fareeha will ask her mother: _Why didn't you leave, if you hated them so?_ And Ana will answer: _If I weren't there, with them, who would have raised such concerns at all?_ )

It is a bitter truth, is one she finds most unpalatable, but it is one which it is only fair she learn, before she would sign away her life to Overwatch, before she would place them on a pedestal. It is a bitter truth, but it is one she learns well, and that she takes to heart.

When they watch the news together, she listens to the lists of cities attacked, and listens for which ones Overwatch has aided. Together, they speculate as to why certain cities were valued over others—what citizens they have, what strategic resources they might offer. When they think they have figured it out, they contact her mother, and although Ana never answers directly, she ensures that the two of them know when they are right.

Such is not a game—nor is it meant to be—but Fareeha is nevertheless always proud to have solved the tactical puzzle, proud to have understood why important decisions are made. In that regard, her father's lesson was a success. Fareeha learns, and learns well, that one's life can easily be made unimportant if one does not have something which directly benefits those with the power to make such decisions.  She learns that, no matter what, some people’s lives will not be viewed as being as high a priority as others—and so, when it comes time to choose to save them, or to save another, they will all too easily be left for dead.

If the intent, however, was to discourage Fareeha from joining Overwatch, it is a miserable failure.

What she learns, instead, is this: she understands the tactical side of warfare, has a knack for it, and, moreover, understands it well enough that she can form and articulate her moral objections to certain decisions.

Rather, then, than discouraging her, the exercise _encourages_ her, teaches her that, yes, safety is relative, because for so long as no one is there who cares to protect them, everyone is in danger.

If she wants the world to be a better, safer place, she will simply have to enlist and ensure that she protects those whom the current system would fail to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is the end of part one! no more childhood after this


	5. IV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> today marks exactly one month since i left my abusive partner & then wrote this whole fic (all 17 parts) in a two week span. wild times. perhaps fittingly, today we being part two: on control.

PART TWO

_Control is an illusion_

# IV.

With the end of the Omnic Crisis comes a renewed faith in those in authority, in the idea that those who ought to be in control are, and that they are capable of keeping the peace.

(History will not look kindly on such naïveté.  In light of what will come to pass, it seems foolish to believe that all of human and Omnic nature could be changed by one Crisis, by one war.  No amount of destructive potential has the power to alter such.  But to those caught in the crossfire, every war seems the greatest and the least humane, and every enemy seems the fiercest and the most capable of committing atrocities.  It is understandable, then, that the survivors might be invested in the idea that no future war could eclipse the one they endured, that humanity must learn from what happened.  Tragedy is made endurable only by hope—hope for the future, hope for recovery, hope that after such tragedy people _must_ change, must not allow themselves to commit such vile acts.  It is understandable, but it is wrong.  For nothing could ever be terrible enough to change the hearts of men.)

For better or for worse, Overwatch seems, for a brief time, infallible, and the world feels safe. 

Some, naturally, feel less safe than others, some find peace unlikely or hard to adjust to, but they are in the minority—or seem to be, and so it is easy to see how this period will be remembered as a respite, a brief shining moment when wars seemed won, and peace lasting and meaningful.

(Peace is, of course, never lasting, for it must be continuously chosen, day by day, and only one person need choose wrongly one time for it to be broken.  In this way, violence is a sort of addiction, one which humanity has developed and can treat but never cure.)

Overwatch becomes something great in these years, something towering, until its impact is so large it casts a shadow across all humanity.  It is nigh on unthinkable, in these days, that someone would speak out against Overwatch, against the heroes of the Omnic Crisis, the bringers of the peace—never matter how they brought about that peace—and in the absence of detractors, or accountability, or a belief in their fallibility, Overwatch and its members become something larger than themselves, something impossible.  They are in control, but more than that, they are hope itself.

 

## i.

Angela is among the few who has any doubts about Overwatch, who believes them to be neither incorruptible nor infallible.  They failed to save her family, and their methods are ones she does not imagine she could ever approve of.  Never before has a large standing military force been conducive to the promotion of lasting peace, and she doubts Overwatch will truly be any different than its predecessors.

Nevertheless, when the offer comes that she join them as their head of surgery and medical research, Angela accepts.  Many might have been swayed by the prestige of Overwatch, or joined as true believers in their cause, but Angela’s motivation is one which any academic would recognize, is something far simpler: she joins Overwatch for the funding.

(Years later, after the fall, she will be asked what drew her—renowned pacifist—to Overwatch, a paramilitary force.  She will say _It was where I believed I could do the most good._ She will say it, and it will not be a lie, for that funding was necessary for her research, and while she did not—does not—believe in Overwatch, in the premise of using violence to bring about a better future, she did, and perhaps still does, believe in herself, in her own abilities and potential to make a positive change.  She will say it, and it will not be a lie, not for years yet.)

The research for which Angela joins is not that which, years into the future, will cause others to say she has beaten death, but it is similar in intent.  What drives Angela to Overwatch is not reversing death, but an attempt to prevent it from occurring in the first place.  Such is an ambitious goal, but Angela feels that given the proper amount of time and resources, it is possible, and if any work environment would support such ambition, would foster the belief that the impossible can become possible—that is Overwatch.

At Headquarters, there is a sense of breathlessness, of wonder, a feeling that anything is possible; when one’s coworkers are talking gorillas and the saviors of humanity, such a feeling makes sense.  Everyone there is among the greatest in the world at _something_ , be it science, diplomacy, or warfare, and the feeling of being among the best, of being surrounded by experience, passion, and talent, is inspiring, in its own way.

There are, of course, rules and limitations.  There always will be.  But they are not so terrible, for Overwatch is a military organization, yes, and there are strict orders which must be obeyed without question or hesitation, but Angela is an officer and, furthermore, her superiors recognize that, in her area of expertise, her knowledge, her ability, and her judgement are second to none, and so, for the most part, Angela is allowed to do as she wishes, to pursue research at her own discretion, and to proceed with her research unmolested.

(In the years to come, critics will argue that Overwatch allowed their scientists such leeway only because they did not care what it was they produced, so long as the organization had something to show for it.  They will argue that Overwatch’s support of the sciences is only a gesture, one made for public relations reasons.  They will be right.)

When she looks back, Angela will think of these days as some of the best of her life.  Her research seems promising, and breakthroughs are not too far between.  The work she does is fulfilling, and because she has saved nearly everyone on base, she shares words with them all, as well, and they begin to feel like a second family to her, not a substitute or a replacement for the one she lost, of course, but a comfort and a home nonetheless. 

This second, new family accepts her, for all that she is, and for the first time in her life she feels comfortable in publicly identifying herself as a woman.

She chooses the name Angela, thinking of the last words her parents said to her.  At night, alone in her room, she can still hear them speaking to her, replays that scene in her head, for now it is a comfort, for in it they say her name—her proper one—and she can imagine that in that moment they knew, and accepted her for who and what she is.  In this way, she is able to use language to change her world, to reshape the past as she believes is best, until thoughts of her family turn from painful, jagged edges to something soft and warm, something familiar.  She can never know what they would have thought, but she can imagine, can rewrite her past into something better.

So it is that Angela comes to feel in control of her own life, in control of her destiny.  No longer does she wait for a fated death, but fights against it in her own life, in her operating theater, in her lab.  The world may have learned in the Omnic Crisis that control is an illusion, but for a time that is easy to forget, for it seems as if Overwatch is more than able to handle the world’s security, more than able to dispatch threats as they arise.

Angela does not think to wonder if that role will ever compromise her own goals and objectives, for so long as there is peace, her job is only in the lab and tending to patients, not out in the field.  A threat large enough to change that seems, at the time, impossible.

For all that Angela pushes towards the impossible, for all the imagination that an attempt to cheat death requires, even she never imagines what is to come.

 

## ii. 

Elsewhere in the same base, Fareeha is adjusting to life in Switzerland.  While it was her decision to move, her parents having given her the choice to either stay in Canada or move to the Overwatch Headquarters and live with her mother, she is only just now, months later, beginning to feel at home.

(Years later, she will ask her father why she was allowed to make this decision.  Did he not want her kept away from Overwatch?  Did he not want her to grow up to live a civilian life?  And he will tell her: _We knew, even then, that we could not change your mind._ He will say: _We hoped, beyond hoping, that if you saw what it was to truly be in Overwatch, you might change your own mind._ He will mean: _I sent you away in the hopes that you would return to me, on your own._ )

Overwatch is not her father’s hometown, with its close knit community of people who have become her family, and it is not Egypt, the land she was born in, where everyone speaks her first language and she need not worry about the food making her ill.  Instead, Overwatch is in a place which, still, after moths, feels strange to her, with customs she does not understand and languages she does not speak.

If Overwatch sees itself as a family—well it is little consolation to Fareeha, who is not afforded to see any more of the senior members than they allow her, than they have time for, than her mother permits.

Much of the world sees Overwatch as heroes, as larger than life figures, as beings somehow greater than humanity, and despite living in and among them, Fareeha is not afforded the opportunity to gain a different perspective.  That is, for Fareeha, the most difficult part of her move; while she may be in close proximity to her heroes, geographically, she is still no closer to them than ever, is still years away from being able to join them in their quest to protect, is no more than a blip on their collective radar.

Although she may have more reservations than many about Overwatch as a whole, knowing from her parents about the shortcomings of the organization, the truth behind the story they tell the world, many of the individuals within Overwatch remain Fareeha’s heroes, and she does not like that, despite being so near to them, there is nothing she can do to bridge the gap, is no amount of tactical knowledge which will prove to them her worth or maturity. 

In fact, there is very little of Fareeha’s life that she feels she as any control over.  It smarts, as she stands next to her mother, who commands Fareeha’s heroes, who commands attention when she walks into a room with her bearing and presence alone, who commands her own fate, in a way Fareeha can only hope that she will be able to in the future.

If one were to ask Fareeha who among Overwatch she admired the most, she would answer Reinhardt, without hesitation, but it would not be true, for loathe as she is to admit it, and colored as such a feeling is by envy, it is Ana whom Fareeha looks to when learning what it is to be a soldier, a commander, a protector; it is Ana who forms the axis by which Fareeha’s world spins.

It is fitting, then, that Ana should be the one who helps Fareeha to again find her place in the world, to help her to feel in control.  Such is not, necessarily, her intent, but when Fareeha, thirteen, with all the gangly awkwardness that usually accompanies such an age, talks about one of her classmates—a dancer—in awe of her gracefulness, her strength, Ana is able to find a solution.

Initially, Fareeha is hesitant when her mother offers her private lessons in hand to hand combat.  While she wants, of course, to protect people, thinks a future in Overwatch is the best way to go about doing so, she still has never personally enacted violence.  From what she has seen, growing up during the Omnic Crisis, violence only takes; it takes her mother, takes her away from her homeland, takes lives.  But Fareeha also knows this: the Omnic Crisis could not have ended without combat.  Without violence on the part of those who protect, there would be nothing left to be taken

So, she agrees, after extracting a promise from her mother that, if she hates the lessons, hates the idea of hurting another, even in defense of herself, she can quit. 

(At the time, both of them believe the promise, believe a better future is coming, where Egypt will not need an Amari to defend it, where Fareeha’s already apparent talents will be best put to use somewhere off of the battlefield, for there will be no wars to fight.  At the time, Ana does not know the path she is setting Fareeha down.  At the time, they are doing what seems best for them, and for their relationship, and cannot imagine what the future holds.)

On the training mats, Fareeha feels more at home than she does anywhere, of late, feels more graceful than she otherwise could on her suddenly too-long legs, feels more in control of herself, her body, her actions, her future, her destiny, than she could doing anything else, and slowly, slowly, Fareeha comes to love these lessons.  Like this, in false combat, Fareeha comes to feel powerful, like she belongs, and she understands, then, for the first time, what it is her mother feels when deployed which is so powerful that even now, in a time of peace, she cannot quit the field and come home.

It is in this way that Fareeha begins to truly know the legacy she is heir to, and to embrace it.  Protecting others, while it has always been a goal of hers, is not necessarily something she thought she would _enjoy_ , not like this.  Now, she begins to picture herself with her heroes—not beside them in a photograph her mother arranged to have taken, but among them, as an equal.

On the mats Fareeha feels in control of her fate, and she imagines it to be this: herself and her mother fighting side by side, protecting the innocent with Overwatch.

But the control she feels is merely an illusion, and that will never come to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> they're growing up :') and things are speeding up, too. this is now more than halfway to their meeting point--and just over a quarter of the way finished.


	6. V

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> another week and another update! this time not at night because i remembered in a timely fashion. :D

PART TWO

_Control is an illusion_

# V.

Peace ends far quicker than it began.

No one sees coming the attack which plunges the world again into uncertainty.  One night, the Western Hemisphere goes to sleep, and by the time that they wake, Talon is a household name.

The attack in Istanbul is sudden, is decisive, is deadly.  A summit between Overwatch agents and Omnic rights activists is attacked by a team of assassins, and all those present are killed or pass into the Iris.  Such an attack is not only a blow to the movement behind the talks, to the will amongst Crisis survivors to work with Omnics, but also to Overwatch, who not even a day before seemed unassailable, seemed near universally supported, seemed able, if anyone was, to preserve peace.

Now, they are left reeling.

While the world mourns, or stands still, paralyzed in shock, or at least pretends to do one of those things, as is expected (for to say otherwise while others fear a new Omnic Crisis seems gauche at best, to say otherwise is to risk social censure), Overwatch Headquarters does none of those things.  Given their role as symbols, they are not afforded the luxury of mourning, of seeming to falter.  Instead, they mobilize, vow to bring an end to Talon, and others like them.  It is what their fallen would have wanted, even if not all of those still alive agree.

(Years later, some will pinpoint this as a turning point, as the moment when public support for Overwatch began to waver.  Not because of the attack itself—some things can neither be foreseen nor avoided—but because of the response to it.  The abrupt, almost cold speech Jack Morrison gives at the longest of the vigils, broadcast around the globe, makes Overwatch seem heartless, or in denial.  Perhaps it was unfair of the world to expect Commander Morrison to bare his soul before them, to allow himself to show weakness and, to his own eyes, be so diminished, but it is what they expected, nevertheless, and he did not deliver—the first misstep of many, as those who come after will not.  But that is years and a lifetime ahead of Jack, ahead of everyone in Overwatch.)

So it is that humanity’s three years of peace come to a close, and they realize that that which they learned during the Omnic Crisis still holds true: even when it seems as if all is well, is under control, such is not the case, for if even Overwatch cannot protect their own, then who can?

Control is an illusion.  A lovely one, but one nonetheless.

 

## i.

When Angela enlisted it was under the understanding that she was not to see combat, not to visit the frontlines, not to be made to leave the relative safety of her lab; she was to be treated as if she were a civilian contractor, save for her rank and her security clearance—but things are no longer what they were when she enlisted, people are no longer who they were before Talon, and the agreement she made was an informal one, and so she now finds herself in combat, all moral objections ignored.

Each mission, as she steps out of the ORCA, she tells herself she will not discharge her weapon, will not kill will die before she runs the risk of orphaning another.  Such is a noble wish, made with good intent, and so, of course, she is ultimately unsuccessful.

(Years later, in a dispute over the use of the biotic rifle, Ana will bring this up, will unkindly remark that Angela has always thought herself above the rest of them, thought she was too _good_ to kill.  Angela will not respond truthfully, will not say she refuses to kill because she thinks her life worth more than others—because in fact, she thinks it worth less, and she will not say that she thinks Ana a better person than herself, though she does, driven as the Captain is not by fear but by love.  Instead, she will say that if Ana truly believed there was no shame in what they did, she would not have personally signed the letter rejecting her daughter’s application to Overwatch.  To this, Ana will have no reply, and no more words will be shared between them before her death.  Such words, like the killing, are something Angela will live to regret, but she will _live_ , and in the moment, her back to the wall, that becomes all that matters.)

When Angela sees the man enter the alley, she remembers her promise to herself, and does not draw her weapon.  She watches him approach, and knows in her hurt she will die, separated from her team by her own stubbornness, her insistence upon trying to save a dying civilian.  At the time they told her to leave the man to die, she thought it cruel, thought no one deserved to die alone.  Now, she knows better, trapped in an alley with a woman she could never have saved and a man who will not hesitate to kill her.  More cruel than leaving a woman to a lonely death is this: throwing away one’s life in the name of another who could not consent to such sacrifice.

As he raises the gun the man—scarcely an adult by the look of him—shakes, from fear, or prior blood loss, or both.  He shoots, and he misses, or, rather, he hits her, but the bullet only grazes her side.  The shock of it, the pain, the sudden realization that she could die here, alone, alone as she has always been afraid of being, alone as she was without her parents, alone, never to be loved again, is enough to compel her, at last, to act, and while he fumbles with his clip she draws her gun.

As she shoots, she counts in her head, like at the range, like this is no more than practice—she will not make his mistake and die because she did not know how many bullets remained.  _Eis:_ a miss.  _Zwei_ : an overcorrection.  _Dr_ _ü_ : she connects, hits him center mass, and he stumbles back before slumping against the wall.  She thinks that is the last of it, feels her hands shake as she moves to set down her weapon, wanting it as far from her as possible wanting to forget, forget, _forget._ Then, movement, he raises a hand, and she shoots without thinking: _vier, foif, s_ _ächs, sibe, acht, n_ _ün._

She stops, there, at nine, for there are ten bullets in her clip, and she is not him: she will make her last bullet count.

Throughout the shooting, she did not think, had no goal but to survive, but now, she stands above him, having kicked his gun away from his hand, ready to deliver one final, fatal blow, and her rational thoughts begin to return.  No longer is she moved by fear, and in the absence of the spike of adrenaline this almost, almost does not feel real, save for the warmth of the blood on her side, grounding her.  His wounds, she notes, are already fatal, she has already killed him.  If some other poor medic were to try and save him, it might go for them as her rescue attempt nearly did for her, so it is kinder, then, to let him die, more humane, less barbaric than leaving him to suffer.

But is this not what she feared: dying alone?  How can she claim to spare him, when she thrusts him into her own nightmare?

So she takes pity on him, leans down, holds in her own the hand that would have shot her, coos soft nothings into his ear until he relaxes, seems at peace.  Only then, when he smiles up at her, calm from shock, perhaps, calling her an angel, and she realizes she can feel his words, few as they are—only then does she pull the trigger.  The fear does not have time to return to his eyes.

_A mercy,_ she tells herself as the hot blood sprays across her own face, mixed pieces of his hair and skull and brain.  _I could feel his words, he was loved.  It was a mercy, for he was not alone.  It was a mercy._

Some five minutes later, Jesse will find her in the same alley, tending to her own wound.  He will see, and he will know that she has betrayed her principles, her ideals, _herself_.  He will see, but he will not remark upon it—Jesse knows well what it is to betray.  When she is all patched up, he will return her to the transport, and there, Ana will offer her a hair tie, noting how shaken she is, just in case she is ill.

She knows already she will not be, but she ties her hair back anyway, as if she were just in surgery, and not on the battlefield, tells herself that if she can manage this, to think of him in his final moments as a patient, she can control her reaction, and what she did is not so bad, is not the betrayal she knows it is.  She controls her, fate, she tells herself.  Whatever comes, she is _in control_ , and as she thinks it, she ignores the traitorous tremor of her hand.

When she awakes, that night, in a cold sweat, memories of hot blood sticking to her face, choking on the imagined smell of it, she realizes the truth: whatever control she had was an illusion, for when it mattered, she could not control even her own fear, could not control even _herself_.

 

## ii.

After Talon’s emergence, Fareeha’s life becomes once again the meterstick by which she judges her mother’s safety, holding their words as a promise.  A few years before, this might have been enough for Fareeha to be, if not comfortable, less uneasy with Ana’s absence, might have been enough to give her a semblance of control, but if Talon has taught her anything it is that the infallible is never truly so.

It does not help that, with Overwatch once again under threat, Fareeha is no longer allowed to use on-base facilities so freely s she had before, and with her mother away she finds herself constrained.

What Fareeha wants, more than anything, is to _do_ something, to be able to save lives, like her mother does’ instead, she has nothing to do at all, save waiting around base and trying not to get underfoot when the adults are talking.

_Overwatch is a family_.  Commander Morrison said so during Liao’s eulogy, and that may be so, but they are not Fareeha’s family—not yet.  She knows their names, their faces, their reputations, and she has spoken to some of them, on occasion, but she is not one of them, and worse, is a child to them still, whose solemn promises are to be laughed at, to be dismissed, and never to be considered seriously.  Never matter that she shares words with most all of them—so they _ought_ to care—they tell her later, later, perhaps when you are older, child, and dismiss her out of hand, as if she would not, could not understand.

(When, years later, she joins Overwatch at last, she will not tell them that they were wrong, but neither will she have forgotten such discussions.  Instead, having seen war herself, having fought and killed, and at long last made a name for herself—not her family’s name, but her own, _Pharah_ —she will understand why they would not, could not, take her seriously.  To imagine any child growing up in a world that still needs heroes, needs soldiers, means a failure on their part, and one that is difficult to stomach.  Children ought not inherit wars from their forebears.)

To Fareeha, the situation seems unfair; she is scarcely younger than either Agent McCree or Doctor Ziegler was at enlistment, yet she is seen, still, as a child, and they are adults.  Adults who, unlike everyone else on base, never speak a single word to her.

(Jesse will tell her, when she asks him, two decades later, that as the youngest on the Strike Team, the two of them feared being seen as the children they were not, and mutually agreed that neither of them was to speak to her.  It was not an act of malice, but of self-preservation.  Fareeha understands.  She has, by then, forgiven greater sins committed in the name of self-defense.)

In Fareeha’s mind, the discrepancy in her treatment and the others’ is the result of her mother’s identity, of the Strike Team not seeing Fareeha, the teenager, but Ana’s daughter, the child; she is too young and sheltered yet to see that she is, still, in her childhood, and that the difference between herself and Jesse and Angela is not the name of her mother, but that she has one at all.  She is still in her childhood, and is lucky to have one—neither of them were afforded such a chance.

What Fareeha sees, instead, is the way her mother’s name draws an instant reaction from others, how they look to her before answering any of Fareeha’s questions, the shift in demeanor when she enters a room.  What Fareeha sees is not a difference in lived experience between herself and the others present, not the degree to which, comparatively, she has been sheltered and remains an innocent, but instead she sees the presence and impact of her mother.

(If she does not note the corresponding absence of Jesse and Angela’s parents—well, she is young, yet, and who could blame her, when her world is so shaped by the presence of her own mother?)

For the first time, Fareeha feels something akin to resentment for Captain Amari, whose shadow, Fareeha feels, guarantees she will never be seen as her own person, will never be anything more than the daughter of the famous Horus, hero of the Omnic Crisis, Second-in-Command of Overwatch.  For the first time she feels a shift in the words between them—still there, of course, but now not so gentle as before, nor so easy, they begin to become sharp barbed things, laced with the sickly sweet taste of envy.  Sometimes, when she and her mother argue, she wishes she would choke on them, rather than have to say another word.

When Fareeha goes to the training room to work off her stress, hoping that a quick spar with one of the new recruits—too green to know better—will help her to feel in control again, she is turned away, for Ana is not on base, and no one else will accompany her without her mother’s express permission.

Even here, where Fareeha felt most in control, she only ever existed by the grace of her mother.  It stings, to think that even this, she does not own, even this, she cannot control.  Nowhere is she free from her mother’s legacy, not truly.

And how could she be? 

Everything Fareeha is, everything she values and loves, has been in some way shaped by her mother, or her father’s fear that she will _become_ her mother, and without that, what does she have?

Whatever control she felt she was gaining over her life is revealed, now, for the façade it was.

She fears for the first time that she will be never seen as anything more than her mother’s daughter, and whether she is or not—no matter what she does—is not necessarily something that she can control.

For if Fareeha cannot even choose, for herself, what it is she wants to do, how can she being to hope to control how others perceive her?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> those of u who know how to count in german may be like "well that doesn't quite sound right" and the reason for that is that swiss german is unlike standard german so the numbers are a little different.
> 
> anyway, hope you're all having a good weekend!
> 
> <3 rory


	7. VI

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> how many times can i say im abt to update this fic and then forget in one day? at least seven. but im here now

PART TWO

_Control is an illusion_

# VI.

For a time, it seems as if things are improving, as if Overwatch may in fact be able to quell Talon. While their attempts at dismantling any part of the hierarchy of the organization are, by and large, unsuccessful, Overwatch _does_ succeed in drawing Talon's attention away from the public, and towards themselves. It is not the same as defeating Talon, is not even close, but for many people, it is enough, enough to know that _they_ are not in immediate danger, even if members of Overwatch are.

(At the time, it seems like a victory, seems as if they have done enough, solely by _distracting_ Talon, and later, people will wonder, _how could that ever have been enough?_ How could simply refocusing Talon's attentions have seemed like it was a viable solution? How could anyone have been so naïve as to believe that Overwatch had things well in hand? What hubris is it to think that one organization, that one military force, could save everyone? Armies are not made to save, they are made only to kill.)

Among Overwatch, there is no such sense of optimism as there is among the rest of the world. They _know_ the cost, they know how many they have lost, how many they are losing, even if they do not know how many they will ultimately lose. Behind closed doors, they plot, and they plan, and they hope, beyond hoping, that they can find a weakness, can bring down Talon. On television, they tell a different tale.

To the media, a smiling Commander Jack Morrison reports that they are confident in the progress they are making against Talon, that they will be able to keep everyone safe. At his side, stands Captain Ana Amari, stony faced, never a word about Talon passing her lips, no reaction given to what it is she is thinking and feeling—but who would question that? It is Commander Morrison they look to for an emotional cue, and they think little enough about Ana herself.

(Although most people are placated, some are not, and this show by Morrison is, to them, another of his many failings. Better for him to have been honest, when the truth was writ across Amari's face.)

If Jack Morrison, war hero, super soldier, savior of humanity, says they are safe—who would question it? If he says the situation is under control, then it must be, _it must be_ , and humanity allows itself to forget what it was they learned in the Omnic Crisis.

Control is an illusion.

 

## i.

Angela always believed that killing someone would be a difficult thing, that to take a life would be more difficult than to save one, that if she did so, she would not be able to live with herself afterwards, and after she has killed, she finds the most difficult thing is not guilt over the act itself, but guilt over a _lack_ of remorse, a _lack_ of difficulty.  She ought, she thinks, to feel guilty for killing the man, ought to wonder how it was she could have done such a thing, but when she replays the moment in her mind, every time she reaches the same conclusion, does the same thing, cannot bear to die, kills him lest he do the same to her.  While she may regret the life he could not live, she cannot regret what she has done, for he would have taken her own future from her, so she had no choice in the matter, save for the one she made, not if she wanted the chance to do anything, to change anything.

(That there is always the choice to die is something that she does not acknowledge then.  A decade later, she will consider it, if only for a moment, a gun pressed to her temple, but she will choose, again, to live.  And then, years after even that, she will confess that moment to her lover, who will hold her while she cries, and whisper that she is glad Angela pulled the trigger, and she will cry harder, because for having this, the pleasure of this one moment, the love of this one woman, she knows she would kill again.  It will not be forgiveness, for there can be no absolution after what she has done, but it is something akin to it.)

If anything, her own lack of guilt only spurs forward her work on her project—if _she_ can kill, and not regret it, anyone can—and scarcely more than a year later, Angela has done it, has found, not a cure, but a vaccination against death itself.  A solution of nanites intended to correct any issue which might predispose one towards a premature death, and to live within the body, ready to repair any damage sustained as it is received, so long as the stock is replenished by the occasional booster shot.  If this works, it will be her magnum opus, will save people like her sister, might even have been enough to have saved her parents, could be enough to ensure that none are ever forced to endure the loneliness which she herself did, no child will be orphaned again.

_If_ it works.

All that remains, now, is to test it; if it can prove itself useful on human beings, if the nanites in her blood stay dormant without causing any harm, then she will move forwards with her attempt to test it on others, to prove its efficacy.

A breath in, a breath out.  Needles do not make Angela nervous—she is even used, after several years on estrogen, to turning them upon herself—but the potential for failure does, and so she steels herself, counts backwards from ten, does her best not to think of the parallel between this and her counting her own bullets.

At _eis,_ she plunges the needle into the skin of her thigh, bites her lip as she feels the fluid flow into herself, sits back, waits, and—nothing.  Nothing happens at all.

One minute passes, then two, and she rushes to her notes to see what has gone wrong, begins pouring over her calculations and observations looking for something, anything to explain the failure—

And then, pain, so sudden and intense she drops to her knees and is ill, all the while clawing at her eyes because they hurt, beyond what she has words for, they hurt and she cannot _see,_ and she begins to hyperventilate, because she has fucked up, somehow, has made a mistake, and she is going to die here, in her own office, in so much pain she cannot even scream, and it is spreading to her back, to her _spine,_ and she knows, from there, what must come next, she is going to die, alone, and—

And just as abruptly, it ends, pain leaving her eyes, leaving her back, leaving her on the floor, glasses thrown halfway across the room, papers strewn everywhere, kneeling in her own vomit, and she realizes, then that she can _see._ Her probing fingers then further confirm her suspicions, finding her spine to be entirely without evidence of scoliosis.

It ought to make her happy, ought to make her proud, but what Angela Ziegler instead feels in that moment is a rush of cold fear.  This is not what she wanted, is not what she intended, to cure that which does not need to be cured.  It is too indiscriminate, is _wrong,_ and the ability to change the things about a person which already exist, if the nanites deem them to be problematic, is too powerful.

In an instant, she sees all that it could be used for, all she was unwilling to acknowledge that others might attempt to do with her creation, all the potential consequences, should her research fall into the wrong hands, and she knows, then, that it _must_ be destroyed, knows where it would lead.  Her own desperation blinded her from the potential consequences, but now that she knows, now that she sees—it is all she can do not to be ill again.

If anyone were to find this—

But they will not, she will guarantee it.

She takes a week off work, the first real vacation time she has requested in her time with Overwatch, and returns to the mountain where she performed her first miracle.  The tents are gone, and no evidence remains of the childhood she spent there, no trace remains of those who lived and died, no monument, memorial, or plaque.  It is as desolate a place now as it felt to her then, and so it is perfect for this task.

Page by page, she burns her notes, careful that each one is entirely consumed.  She feeds to the fire five years of her work, five years of her life, watches as they are burned, ended, and does her best not to think of the lives that go with them.  This is the only way, she tells herself.  It is the _only way._

(At a UN inquest, following the demise of Overwatch, one of her old budget reports will be examined, and they will ask her if any other record of this research exist, if Overwatch could have okayed something like this, and she will tell them no, will lie, head held high.  They will push, and she will again say no, far be it from the Jewish doctor to dabble in eugenics.  They will be too uncomfortable to push further, and it is guaranteed, then, that the research will die with her.)

She cannot control what others will do, cannot control the future, cannot control what would have been done with her work, if it had been completed, but she can control _herself_ , and that is enough.

It must be.

 

## ii.

For Fareeha, freedom begins with basketball.  Not the playing of the game, but that she joins a team in the first place.  Suddenly, she finds herself with three things she has not had in years.  First, she gains friends who know her for whom she is, and not for the fact that she is the daughter of the famous Captain Amari, the superior officer of all of her classmates’ parents.  Second, she is given an opportunity to prove herself talented at something her mother has never done, where comparisons will not be so simple for others to make, and her achievements not so easily dismissed.  Third, and most importantly, she is able to discover an ability she inherited from neither of her parents, a natural affinity for leadership, an ability to bring together teams, to solve conflicts of personality, to give orders and to see them obeyed, without question, without hesitation, without doubt.

(Twenty years later, Ana will remark, almost wistfully, that if perhaps she had Fareeha’s ability to lead others, she might have saved Overwatch, might have saved Jack and Gabriel from themselves.  It will be as much of an endorsement of Fareeha’s career choice as she can give, and a far greater one that Fareeha would ask of her, at that point.  For by then, Fareeha will understand enough of her mother to hear the praise for what it is, _I’m proud of you_ , and it will be enough, and more than, to satisfy her.  No number of years or amount of bitterness could stop her from wanting her mother’s praise.)

When she leads people, when she gives them orders and they obey, she can feel words between them, even if there were none before.  It is a strange thing—the words themselves are not remarkable to her, for she has always known and been surrounded by people who love her, but the creation of them is, seems unique to her and her alone—and when she tries to learn more, tries as hard as she might to find any mention of the phenomenon anywhere, she finds not a single result.

This, then, is what convinces her that what she has always believed is correct: if she were to join Overwatch, she could steer them down the correct path, could ensure that justice is done, and lives are saved because people deserve to live, not because they have something which the United Nations has deemed necessary for meeting their shadowy goals.  It must be a sign, for what else could it be?

When she tells her mother this, all breathless excitement, Ana flatly assures her that she must be wrong, that what she has said cannot be so, and that Fareeha ought not to enlist for a reason such as this, ought not to enlist at all, but Fareeha knows, she _knows_ , has felt it, will feel it again, and it must mean something, it must.

What does her mother know of the life Fareeha has lived?  Who has given her mother the right to decide what is right, and what is not?  Why should she say that what Fareeha knows to be true is not?

In that moment, Fareeha wants to argue with her mother, wants to say that she is _wrong_ , that she knows not what Fareeha has felt, but she thinks the better of it.  To argue with Ana is pointless, will only get her in trouble, and her mother puts little stock in words, besides, cares not for promises or the weight between two people alike—has not cared, so far as Fareeha can remember, since the conversation she saw a decade before.  Nothing Fareeha could say to her mother will change Ana’s mind.

So Fareeha will not say anything at all, will not feel the brittleness of the words they now hold between them, will feel nothing at all save determination, and a burning desire to _prove_ herself, to prove her worth, to prove her ability.  If her mother will not believe Fareeha’s words, then she will be made to believe by Fareeha’s actions.  If Fareeha can just show her mother that she is capable, then there can be no more questions, can be no more disagreement, and Ana _must_ believe her, and be proud of her.

(What Fareeha does not know, then, but will learn later, is this: Ana did believe her, knew well how to tell when it was that Fareeha lied, but she hoped that by denying the truth she might prevent her daughter from developing the same sort of grim determination her denial inspired.  As if lying could have ever kept her daughter safe—she could not save Fareeha, could not save Overwatch, could save no one, when the time came, save for herself.  Fareeha will understand, when she finally is told, even if she will not be sure she can yet forgive, even if she does not yet know how it is she feels about her mother, any longer.)

Fareeha, now seventeen, and tall as most men, orders new recruits to allow her to use the training facilities on base, and finds that, unlike only a year or two before, they obey her.  Perhaps it is that she looks older, perhaps it is that she is taller and stronger, perhaps it is that she is more determined, or more certain that she will succeed—but whatever it is, they obey her, _despite_ who her mother is, _despite_ what her mother might say, or do, if she found out about their actions.  She bluffs her way into the gym, into the practice range, into a position where she is able, at last, to prepare for her dream, to work to achieve it.

When her school schedule allows it, Fareeha trains alongside the recruits, wakes early to run a 5k with them before dawn, joins them when she is done with basketball practice for work on the range.  What she learns from this is not unexpected: she is _good_ at this.  In fact, not only is she good, she is _better_ than most of the recruits, her times better, her scores higher, her aim more accurate.  Nothing her mother could say will counter this evidence: that she _is_ as good as those in Overwatch, if not better, that she is _right_ about her abilities, at least in this, and if that is the case, why would she not be right about everything else?

Yet, when Fareeha attempts to show her mother her abilities, her mother dismisses them: even at 45, she can best her daughter in a spar, can score higher in training simulations, can shoot far more accurately.  _Beat me,_ Ana tells her, _beat me and I will consider what you have said—but you are not so special as you think.  What can you do that I cannot?_

From then on, her mother is careful to ensure none will let Fareeha into any training, or practice, and she is forced to return to basketball, and only basketball, when she wants an outlet—but the first two lessons she learned there remain, even if the third is moot.  Here, she knows people who do not judge her by her mother’s standards, and here, out of the shadow of her mother, she can prove herself.

So it is that Fareeha comes to a final realization: she cannot control how she is seen relative to her mother, cannot control what it is her mother thinks of her, nor how she is seen by her, but she _can_ control whether or not she is judged by her mother’s standards.

The answer to her problem, then, is simple: she will simply have to enlist in the Egyptian Army, outside of Overwatch’s purview—if she can prove herself there, if she can apply for transfer after serving among them, then her mother _cannot_ stop her.

_She cannot control her mother, but that does not mean she cannot control her future._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and so ends part two... part three we finally start hitting some canon events, and they are both in their twenties, and meet. exciting stuff


	8. VII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> somehow forgot to edit this chapter til today... and believe me it needed some MAJOR editing... but its done, we're cool, im here and posting on time

PART THREE

_Death is inevitable_

# VII.

Even with the emergence of Talon, of Null Sector, of hundreds of other, smaller factions like them, Overwatch seems untouchable, in those twilight years. True, it does not have the same widespread support it once did, does not have _everyone_ on its side, and yes, it is now fallible, can be recognized as doing wrong, but how is that any different than any other such organization? Overwatch is no longer perfect, it is true, but perfection is not demanded of any other organization, and still they carry on.

Why should Overwatch be any different?

( _Why shouldn’t it have been?_ )

No longer do the members of Overwatch seem perfect, seem more than human, seem like something greater than the rest of the world—but a thing becoming ordinary does not mean that it need end.  Extraordinariness is not the sole positive trait which Overwatch possesses, it can be imperfect and still have value.

After all, the United Nations, its parent organization, is far, _far_ from perfect, and has always been so, yet no one thinks that it shall end, or even be reformed.  NATO is no longer even relevant to the geopolitical climate in 2066, yet still, it persists, even if none alive remember the war which it was formed for.  Why would anyone expect that Overwatch, still relevant in the fight against Talon, in suppressing uprisings such as the Null Sector, is in any danger?

The simple answer is this: no one does.

At the time, Overwatch seems immortal, seems something so tied up in bureaucratic red tape that only an act of god could end it, whether the people like it or not.

They forget, then, what they learned in the Omnic Crisis: death is inevitable.

 

## i.

When they bring the Shimada heir in, Angela knows immediately that if he were anyone else, anywhere else, at any other time, his death would be unavoidable.  His injuries are too severe, the cost and difficulty of the operation needed to save him too great, his record too cruel for anyone to choose to save him over any other needy patient.  Were any other doctor stationed at Overwatch’s Headquarters, he would die.

But it is not some other doctor who is there, it is Angela.

Angela, who knows that severity of an injury does not guarantee outcome, for she has brought back those with no words remaining before, Angela, who is the most talented surgeon alive, and funded by the world’s foremost geopolitical force at the time, and knows she can whether the cost and overcome the difficulty, Angela, who believes that all people have some redeeming value, who would not leave anyone to die, knowing that they are not they only one who will suffer for their death—Angela is his doctor, and not another, and so it is that Shimada Genji will live.

Or, so she tells herself.

The truth is: Angela does not know whether or not a patient will live, when she begins operating on them, does not know until she speaks to them, and feels the weight of their words together.  While she knows that, theoretically, given what she learned all those years ago in her little tent village, everyone is savable—well, theory is not reality.  The truth of the matter is Angela loses patients far more often than she would like to, and until she feels his words, she cannot know whether or not she will succeed.

An absence of words shared with her will not stop her from trying, but she has never succeeded under such circumstances before.

(Unconscious patients add a new layer of worry and mystery and guesswork to an operation.  Years later, when the woman she loves is brought to her in such a state, it will be the first time she truly worries that her emotions will hinder her work—they do not, and if anything, the surgery is better for it.)

When, briefly, he is lucid, she obtains Shimada’s consent to perform extraordinary lifesaving operations, and she feels nothing, not one single word, as if he were already dead on the bed before her.

She knows, then, or believes she does, that he will die. He is already her patient, she has already operated on him, and feels nothing—that has never happened before, not with a patient who lived, but she is not discouraged, will still _try_ to save Shimada, even if she knows it is futile. While he yet breathes, her faith compels her to continue, for failing to attempt to save a dying man is the same as killing him, and what is more, he _wants_ her to try, told her to do anything she felt necessary.

As she works through the night, melds metal and flesh, she wonders how far that "anything" will take her. Extensive work on his (barely salvageable) heart, three lost limbs, and more nanobiotics in his blood than cells—Angela thinks the man before her is nearly lost amongst machines.

She finds herself waiting, during the operation, wondering when and how he will die—for she is certain he shall—but as she completes the most vital and risky of operations, checks items off of her ever expanding list of things she must do to save her patient, he never once codes. Several times, she thinks he will, vitals growing erratic before once again stabilizing, but it does not happen. Against all odds he—persists.

(She is too hesitant, then, to think he _lives_ , and later she will learn that she was right in feeling this way, if not for the reasons she believed at the time. She thought she was saving him only for him to die in the aftermath, to fail to regain consciousness after the operation or worsen suddenly while she is away with another patient, before she might ever speak to him again. What really happens is something Angela cannot imagine: he dies a different sort of death.)

After all is said and done, the decision is made to keep Shimada in a medically induced coma during a portion of his recovery; ostensibly it is done for his own health, but in actuality, Angela agrees to do so only because she can tell that _something_ about him, about his capabilities, makes her superior officers uneasy.  As she does not want an armed guard while in her own med bay—believes that having such would only escalate tensions between Shimada and Overwatch—she has no choice but to ensure he is unconscious.

Still, she talks to him when does her rounds, even if the literature on whether or not he might hear her is inconclusive, because to be alone is a terrible thing, and if he _can_ hear, it must be horrifying to be stuck as he is.  Most of the things she says are mundane, are about his recovery, but she would like to think they are a comfort, would like to think that when he dies—for she is certain, still, that he shall—he will not feel alone.

When, at last, Shimada wakes, his response is not the grateful one Angela imagined, would seem to indicate that he does not feel he was saved at all.  He does not feel close to her, despite all the care she took in trying to make him feel as if she cared, in fact, he says that he hates her.

But Angela does not let that bother her—she has done her job, and he _will_ live, she knows that now.  He may hate her, but she can feel, at last, words between them, and knows that come what may, Shimada will not only _persist_ but will _survive_.  It is enough for her.

She thinks, then, that she has beaten death, that perhaps that one great inevitability she has feared since she was seven is not, after all, so inevitable.  Once might have been a miracle, but twice?  Twice is more than that.

What Angela does not realize is that the man known as Shimada Genji _did_ die, if not physically.  Whomever the man on the bed is now, he is not the patient—Shimada—who entered.  She has not cheated death at all.

Death _is_ inevitable, whether Angela wishes to acknowledge such or not.

 

## ii.

In the months immediately prior to Fareeha's enlistment, she begins to wonder if she has made a mistake after all. The words between herself and her mother are dwindling as the date approaches, and she is certain—both of them are—that such can only mean one thing: she will die.

(They do not consider that it may be Ana who dies, for the change has been in Fareeha's path, not in hers, so surely, then, the danger which exists must be a danger _for Fareeha._ Such is the way of things, as best they understand it at the time—which is not well, but is marginally better than much of the rest of the world. Time will prove them wrong.)

Like most people, Fareeha thought until recently that she would fear death; knowing that one's time to die is approaching makes it easier to prepare for death, perhaps, but nothing is enough to make it easy, not for anyone, it is still human nature to cling to life and to fight against what must come. But there is something greater, here, at play, than only fear of one's own mortality, Fareeha fears for more than _herself,_ she fears what will happen to the world, if no one like her is there to defend it, and to do so morally. If she has to die in order to secure a better future, in order to set an example for others—well, then, her death will not perhaps be just, but it will be done for what is _right_ , and that, if not the death itself, she is at peace with.

If only her mother saw it the same way.

As her words dwindle, her mother grows more and more fearful of her eventual death, and more and more insistent that Fareeha abandon her dream of enlisting, that she just stay home, where it is safe, where Ana—no, Captain Amari—can protect her, and not die for the sake of her ideals.

Never mind that Ana would do the same.

Fareeha hates it, the hypocrisy and protectiveness both. If Ana is allowed to risk her life because she thinks it best, why should Fareeha not be? Why is it acceptable that Ana should be willing to leave her motherless, if it is unthinkable that she would leave her mother childless? Why has Ana taken so much time in training Fareeha to defend herself, to be _better_ , if she will not believe Fareeha to be strong enough, now, to make her own decisions, to choose her own risks?

Why, also, should Fareeha's life be more valuable than the lives of those she might save? Why should Ana choose her over them? Is that not contrary to her duty, to the promises she has made? Are the Amaris not a family of duty, of honor, of service, without question? These are the questions she asks of her mother, and watches as Ana struggles to answer them, both because of the practical constraint of wordcount, which she is trying to stretch as thinly as possible, and because she does not _have_ answers, or not any that will satisfy Fareeha, not any that could sound _fair_ and _just_ next to such high-minded ideals as _sacrifice_ and _duty._

(Later, when Fareeha has served, she will learn why it is that her mother felt there was no room for such ideals, why it is that soldiers learn not to trust in anything greater than themselves, than the barrels of their weapons. But at the time... how could she know? How could she see what the future holds for her? How could she, especially when she does not believe she will live long enough to learn any differently.)

The more Ana insists that Fareeha stay where it is safe, that she use her nearly completed Master’s degree to get a civilian job, the more Fareeha becomes certain that she _must_ do this, not only to prove her words to her mother and to make her proud, but to prove them to _herself_ , and because Ana's categorical rejection of all that is _theoretically_ good only further convinces Fareeha that no one but herself will even attempt reform. But the more Fareeha pushes back, the more desperate, and therefore angrier, the both of them become, conversation becoming strained not only by a lack of words available to them, but by a lack of anything they feel they can safely talk about, without beginning a fight, a lack of any connection between them which does not hurt, in some way.

(Even after their reconciliation, it will be years before either of them can speak of this time, before they can acknowledge that words said out of love—for one another, and for their ideals—could hurt so badly.  It will be easier for the both of them, in the coming years, to believe that they hated each other, in this time, and that, because after their reconciliation they acknowledge that they love one another, it cannot happen again.  It will be easier for them to believe it, but it will be a lie, and eventually, _eventually_ , it is one they must confront, that love can hurt just as much as can hatred.)

By the time the day of Fareeha’s departure arrives, they are barely able to speak to one another at all.  Fareeha wants desperately for Ana simply to say that she is proud of her, that she loves her, and wishes her well and Ana—Fareeha does not know what her mother wants, other than to deny her that.  All she knows is that, as she is walking out the door, her mother tells her that if she leaves, there will be no coming back.

(When, at last, some twenty-five years down the line, Fareeha asks about this, Ana will tell her that she did not mean for those words to be true, that she said them in an act of desperation, that she thought that might be enough for Fareeha to stop, just for a moment, to turn and to _see_ what this was doing to Ana, to see that which she could not give voice to.  But Fareeha did not turn, and after that rejection, Ana felt she could not call or write—felt she had not the right to, and that it would be unwelcome besides.)

At first, during basic training and in her subsequent deployment, Fareeha waits—for her death, for a phone call from her mother, for any change in the way things are, for the _end_ she is certain is coming.  It makes her nervous, ensures she is always, always alert, always looking over her shoulder.  Twice, it saves her life.  Once, it saves someone else’s.

The final time sees her recommended for promotion.

It is then that Fareeha realizes that, perhaps, the coming death is not what she thought—that it is not death in the physical sense which is inevitable, that it is some other, more abstract form of the word she cannot avoid.

She thinks, then, that it is her relationship with her mother which has died, thinks happiness a fair price for her own life, for the chance to save the lives of others.  She thinks she can cheat death.

(It is not until she hears the news that she realizes what a fool she was.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so this was it... the final chapter before fareeha and angela meet for the first time. AT LONG LAST. 
> 
> im probably never doing anything remotely slow-burn again after this. usually its like... if they dont fuck in chapter one did i REALLY write it? but whatever i guess. new and improved rory isnt just writing plot to justify her smut.


	9. VIII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay so i didnt post last week bc it was yom kippur and by the time i remembered the sun was down and yeah. thats a no go. but THIS WEEK its not a high holy day so a bitch is back

 PART THREE

_Death is inevitable_

# VIII.

No one moment can truly be said to herald the end of Overwatch, for no one even could have brought it down, but there is one image found time and again in retrospective articles and holovids, a turning point of sorts, a harbinger of what was to come.  It is hardly the first image of its type—for every tragedy there is a moment rendered symbolic, one microcosm of the greater tragedy framed elegantly and captured for an eternity.

Even before the explosion of the Swiss Headquarters, there is this: a single moment between Morrison and Reyes at Captain Amari’s funeral, unable—unwilling—to look at one another as one eulogy ends and another begins.  The world watches, and knows, then, that they are a house divided.

(Perhaps Amari could have stopped it.  Perhaps it was a long time coming.  Perhaps the schism already existed but by standing between them she had rendered the inevitable invisible.  In the coming years, no one will know, for all three are dead, unable and unwilling both to discuss the matter.  All that the rest of the world will know is this: Ana is dead, and this was the final public appearance of Reyes and Morrison both.  Somewhere, between their appearance prior and this, something irreversible happened—and the public will only ever be able to speculate as to what.)

It is in this moment that a truth not previously acknowledged becomes unavoidable: the end of Overwatch is inevitable. 

All things must end, but some seem immortal, last for generations—Overwatch is not, it seems, destined to be such a one.  It has been, it is, but it will not continue to be.  In the end, its life is shorter than that of most humans, for all that it loomed so large in its heyday it will last a scant twenty years.  But what a legacy in so short a time!  How great it was, how mighty, to seem so infallible.  How much it did, in so short a time, for its loss to come as such a shock.

( _How much it could have done, if it were allowed to continue_ , will be the lament, in the coming years.)

Twenty years is not so long.  Most alive remember a time before there was an Overwatch, even as they are watching it die.  Most alive remember a time when they learned something Overwatch almost, _almost_ was enough to make them forget: death is inevitable.  Every thing, no matter how great or how small, must end.

 

## i.

With the advancements in her nanotechnology and Valkyrie system, Angela thought she could save the world, or, at the very least her comrades (her friends, her family), thought she could protect those who mattered most to her, could fend off death for long enough for all of them to have a chance at happy ending--what a fool she has been, to think such things, for she knew then, and knows now, that death is inevitable, no matter what it is any one person does. In saving Genji, her rabbi, her patients, Angela has never truly _beaten_ death, only warded it off, and even then she did so imperfectly, for those who came back were never quite the same as they were before, so why would she think that she could protect anyone?

She has saved no one, has only prolonged the inevitable.

(In the coming years, she will say as much, will express the belief that in her job healing soldiers, she never saved a single person, only allowed death to continue, by putting killers back on their feet, traded the life of one for the lives of twenty. And for what? The men and women on her table would all die anyway--the only thing thing that she has changed is the number of people they take with them. This is why she treats only civilians, in the years between.)

It is not Genji who makes her realize this, though he expresses much the same to her, in harsher terms. It is not the countless people who have accused her of playing god. It is death itself which teaches her this, its final lesson. Perhaps she should count herself fortunate to have learned it before it was her time to die--but certainly, it does not feel a fortunate thing, knowing this.

Ana is dead.

Horus, Captain Amari, the world's greatest sniper, left to rot behind enemy lines, bested by an unknown, unseen opponent, the Widowmaker. No technology that Angela has created mattered, when it came to saving Ana's life, for Angela _was not there_ , was back on base, letting some other medic handle the mission, as she stayed back to finish writing yet another grant proposal. In the end, Ana died not for her people, not for the success of a mission, but for _funding_ , because Angela thought, however foolishly, that all would be well, that the mission would be routine.

Therein lies the problem--Angela cannot be in all places, at all times, and so death _will_ best her, will take from her those people who matter to her most, because death is omnipresent and she... she is limited.

She is limited, and it is Ana who has paid the price.

At the funeral--such as it is, with an empty casket and far too much press--Angela does not speak. Like Jesse, she was invited to, for she had been on a Strike Team with her late Captain, had known her better than most, but she does not feel it is enough for her to deserve to speak; in fact, she almost skips the funeral entirely. If she was not there when Ana needed her most, how can she ever show her face here? How can she stand in the same room as the mourners, and know that she is the reason Ana died? Angela can feel _everyone's_ words, can judge the life of anyone who has ever come under her care--and the others know this--so why did she not sense that Ana was so near to death? She plays the last weeks over in her mind, the times she distractedly declined invitations to tea or cut conversations short to be elsewhere, thinks of how she has avoided Ana since the subject of the rifle was broached, angry as she was. Did Ana die for this, for Angela's anger, for Angela's pride? How can she face the people who loved Ana better and more dearly than she and admit such?

(Blinded as she is by grief, it will be many years before Angela considers the many other people who did not notice how little time Ana had left, will be a long time before she acknowledges that much the guilt she feels is misplaced grief, and selfish at that. At the time however, her understanding is something much simpler.)

As the medic assigned to the First Strike, Angela _ought_ to have been there, ought not to have sent another in her place, and the deaths of her Strikemates are always, _always_ on her head. There is more she could have done to have prevented it, and the shame of knowing her role in this death nearly keeps her from attending the funeral, would have, were it not for the fact that Ana herself would have disapproved.

( _Public events are not for our benefit_ , Ana had lectured their entire team once, _They ought to be a show of force, and unity. Our enemies will want to see us divided, and we cannot be._ She could not have imagined, then, what her funeral would look like.)

She goes, and she does not speak, tries not to meet the eyes of anyone, for fear that in the she will see judgement, will see blame.

Because of this, she is one of the last remaining after all the speeches have been said--it would not do for her to be heard, would not do for her to imply publicly, when it can be seen, that she is at fault for this death; it may be true, it may be understood, but she cannot _say_ it, not when anyone can hear.

So it is that she sees Fareeha Amari for the first time in years, _really_ sees her. During the funeral, she had been stony faced, stood tall, but now, most everyone having gone, she is crying openly, and does not seem half as great or as old as she did only an hour before. Angela remembers, then, what it was to say the Kaddish for her own parents, how she did not cry, because she had been told to _be strong,_ but how she had wanted, desperately, not to be told how to feel, wanted only to speak and be heard, and not be judged for it, found wanting.

Perhaps it is her guilt that drives her, or perhaps it is empathy, that moment of remembering, but she pens a quick note to Fareeha on the back of a funeral program, an offer just to talk, if she needs to, and contact information.

Death is inevitable--she could not save Ana from her fate--but, perhaps, she can yet save a member of the living some pain.

 

 

## ii.

Her mother has two funerals.  The first, like all aspects of Ana’s life, is for the benefit of Overwatch—a large, public affair, memorializing a war hero, a leader, a woman Fareeha never knew—so that the thousands watching from their homes can remember her, this woman they never met, who did not truly exist, and nod to themselves, say that this is what Overwatch had given them, this woman, this legacy.  Never mind the truth of Ana, the woman behind the hero, behind the name, never mind those who truly loved her; they do not matter, here at this ceremony, for all that matters is what _the people_ will think, how _the people_ feel about Overwatch, and those within it.

(Never mind, also, that the tension between Jack and Gabriel will cause a public relations disaster anyway.  Her mother would be disappointed in all of them.)

It is all wrong, that first funeral, an empty casket not even facing towards Mecca, as the orientation would be counter to the rest of the military cemetery.  No one cries during the funeral, for they are expected, all of them, to be sober and brave soldiers, to not mourn the loss of the woman she was to them, but to remember the symbol she was for others; it would make Fareeha sick, if it were not so sad.

Ana’s second funeral is only somewhat better.  It has less people, certainly, is not the crowded public affair of the first, with no media present, is only she, her father, a select few other relatives, all gathered in Cairo for one last farewell.  There is no grave, for they know they have nothing to bury, is only conversation.  They tell stories, then, of the woman she was, of the silly things she sometimes said, of the times she made them angry and the times she made them cry.  These memories are not of some shining, perfect figurehead, but of someone real, someone tangible, will faults just like the rest of them.  It is real, in a way the previous funeral could not have been, and Fareeha ought to be grateful for it.

But, like so many things which _ought_ to be, Fareeha is not.  For this, too, smarts in its own way—each and every one of those gathered knew her mother far longer than she ever did, have more to tell of her, were on better terms with her when she died.  It does not do to be jealous here, is hardly the appropriate time and place, but how can Fareeha not be?  How can Fareeha not feel as if her chance to have a meaningful relationship with her mother was stolen from her?  They had far more words than they ever used, or did prior to Fareeha’s enlistment, at least.

Therein lies the real problem, therein lies the guilt.  If Fareeha had not made that decision, if she had not changed the status quo—would this have come to pass?  She does not, cannot know, and it leaves a bitter taste in her mouth, one she cannot wash out, no matter how hard she tries.

What can she say to the people she sits among?  What have they in common?  Their experiences with Ana are not her own; they were prepared for her to die, or nearly so, were surprised that she survived so long as she did, in her line of work, and Fareeha—Fareeha was not ready to lose her mother.  Perhaps she did not need Ana anymore, not in the same way she had five years before, but to her Ana never seemed wholly human, seemed somehow greater than that, invulnerable and ever-present.  In so many ways, Ana’s existence, her very being, has shaped Fareeha’s life, as she has defined herself both in accordance with and opposition to her mother’s legacy.  How, now, can that presence suddenly be gone?

It is a loss too terrible and sudden for Fareeha to truly understand.

In a way, she is losing not only her mother, but her _self._

(Years later, when Ana returns, it, too, will be sudden and terrible, will shake Fareeha to her core, for how can the woman she has become in the absence of her mother, defined by upholding a legacy and honoring a memory, continue when that same woman returns, again to her life?)

How could she explain this to her father?  To her aunts and uncles?  To her cousins?  And, how, too, could she explain her _anger_?  That she is furious with her mother for leaving them on such a note, with the two of them still not on speaking terms?  How is she to react, when she hears her father say that her mother always did what was best for others, if not for herself—how can she hear that, and not think of the woman with whom she last argued, who did not seem to care at all for what was best for Fareeha, for what it was that Fareeha desired, for what would make her happy?

How can she ever hope to reconcile the woman she would have done anything to make proud, and the woman whose happiness seemed to exist in opposition of her own?

She cannot do so, especially not here, not now, among people who knew her mother in ways she will never be afforded the opportunity to—and who do not know things about Ana that she wishes, dearly, that she did not.

Here is no place to mourn, not properly.  But what else can she do?  None of the people she knows understand her confusion, her shock—after all, does Fareeha not know the reality of war?  Has she not seen death?  It is impossible, then, to explain to them how important her mother was to, that her death could seem unthinkable.

In retrospect, it is obvious, yes, that death is inevitable, that even a woman such as her mother could not escape it… but the emotional reality of that is so very different.

She needs, she knows, to speak to someone about this, cannot let these feelings stay inside of her, rotting her from the inside out until she is consumed by them—but she cannot go to her family, to her friends, and cannot speak to a stranger; it would not do for this to reach the news, to become unsavory gossip and besmirch her mother’s legacy.

There is a note, in her suitcase.  Little more than a name, contact information, and an offer to talk, scrawled on the back of a funeral program, and Fareeha meant to discard it—but perhaps, she will not.

The death of Ana Amari was inevitable, as all deaths are, but it does not need to consume Fareeha, too, not so soon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> matthew mchoweveryouspellhisname voice: alright alright alright alright


	10. IX

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> decided to do another 11th hour rewrite. and then an 11 and a half hour rewrite. and an even more down to the wire rewrite... and u get the idea! but the time to post is upon us so... here is the final version!
> 
> lots going on in this chapter. and not a lot going on in the next... but for thematic reasons i couldnt spread stuff out more. i may delay next week's post a bit to try and sort out the pacing issue, so if that happens... u know why.

PART THREE

_Death is inevitable_

# IX.

By the time the Swiss Headquarters actually explodes, the end of Overwatch is no surprise.  True, the manner and method of its destruction are not something most would have foreseen, and yes, the PETRAS Act comes as a shock to some, but that Overwatch would end in the near future was no secret.  There have been signs for a long time, longer than most would like to admit.

( _I knew from the beginning,_ some will claim.  Or, _It was clear from the time they changed leadership_ , others will say.  Or, _It was evident from the aftermath of the Istanbul Attack._ None of them will say: _I did not see it coming._ Some of them will lie, but that will be the narrative, that it was clear that the end was nigh, that humanity learned from the Omnic Crisis that all things must die, and learned well.)

Even if the hundred thinkpieces heralding the end of Overwatch did not make it clear, there were the protests, the riots.  Overwatch may not have been done serving humanity, but humanity was certainly done with Overwatch.

(And why would they not be?  Overwatch was a military force, made to restore peace, not to keep it.  Their job ended with the Omnic Crisis, and after that—well, who asked for another international peacekeeping organization?  Who granted them the authority to barge into homes, to decide the affairs of countries their leadership had never before visited?  Why was such an organization allowed to persist for so long as they did?)

When the news breaks of the explosion, however, even the response of some of the most vocal opponents of Overwatch is muted, for the Headquarters did not only host the military branch of Overwatch, but its research and aid branches, and the families of those stationed there—it is hard to justify such a loss of life.  Still harder is avoiding social censure, if one responds inappropriately to such an event.  Much of the world deems the explosion a tragedy, and not just any tragedy, the type that ought to be publicly mourned; never mind that they do not care for Overwatch, never mind those who have no personal connection, there is a prescribed response to such an event, and so they follow it.

It makes sense, after all.  For if Overwatch can die, if a highly fortified military base can fall victim to such an act of violence—who is safe?  This, truly, is what most mourn, in the aftermath of the explosion, not Overwatch, which they knew would die, but their own feeling of safety, of security. 

In a post-Crisis world, things like this are not meant to happen, catastrophic events are meant to be rare.   An end to Overwatch was called for because the people did not _need_ Overwatch, thought they could protect themselves.  Now it is proven that they cannot.

Knowing that one will and must die is one thing, but knowing, _truly_ knowing, that it could happen at any time, anywhere? That brings a new fear.  Words provide some certainty, they always have—but they alone no longer feel enough.

Death is inevitable, and nothing can save you.

 

## i.

Angela goes into the day of the explosion knowing that something will happen, even if she is uncertain as to what.  For weeks, her words have been dwindling, with everyone to whom she speaks.  A part of her would like to believe that this merely heralds her own death—which is likely, given that she has run out of words with others whom she knows are in other countries, on other continents, others who could not possibly be involved in the event which will kill her—but some other, less rational part of her does not know if that is so, remembers the day her parents died, and how sure she was, then, that it was _her_ death coming.  She hopes for the former; she does not want to outlive the people she loves, not again.

In particular, she is certain that _this_ day will be the day that she dies, for it was in the night before that she ran out of words with Fareeha.  Although the soldier is a relatively new addition to Angela’s life, she has quickly become an _important_ one; the two of them speak every night without fail, about anything and everything—the rising opposition to Overwatch, their hopes for the future, their memories of coming of age amongst heroes—and so, Angela knows, having spoken her final words with Fareeha the night before is certainly a very bad sign.

(She does not know, then, if Fareeha could feel her words as well, does not remember if she ever patched up Fareeha when they both lived on the base; if she had, Fareeha would have been a patient, and Angela might be alone in feeling so deeply.  Indeed, Fareeha might only see Angela as a means of dealing with her grief, and there is the trouble, with Angela’s ability to feel the words of many: she may be a better doctor for it, but she can never know for certain if she is loved.)

When Angela said, the night before as she was logging out, _I’ll call you tomorrow_ , she did not know if Fareeha could feel the lie, and that is what she mulls over, as she goes about her day.

(She hopes she did not—for that would be cruel, to love someone and lose them.  She hopes she did—for then Angela would die having been _loved_.)

  Despite her certainty of what is to come, Angela is not overly cautious—or, in truth, cautious at all; she goes about her day as if it were normal, because she learned from Ana’s death, and learned well, that death is inevitable.  Why would she fight against her own?  If it is inevitable, then anything done to avoid her death would only be the thing that triggers it—and the only way she knows of cheating inevitability is she herself intervening.  It stands to reason that, being unable to resurrect herself, there is nothing more that can be done for her.  This, she must accept.

As if nothing were going to happen, as if her words were no longer precious, Angela greets the people she sees in the hallway, as she heads into her office.  As if she had a future, she submits a paper to a journal for peer review.  As if it might save her life, she begins maintenance on the Valkyrie suit.

_Third blade of the left wing responding slowly_ , she writes, as she mulls over in her mind the question of whether or not Fareeha knows.  _Possible that damage was sustained in previous mission, might be unrelated mechanical error,_ it does not seem as if Fareeha knew—but, then, Angela could not look her in the eye as she said goodbye, and it is possible she missed something. _Recommend Torbjörn does a check,_ possible, but not very li—

Light.  Sound.  Heat.  Pressure.  No pain, no time for it.  A single, blistering moment of understanding and then—nothing.

Darkness.

Emptiness.

Warm-not-warm- _hot_.

Pressure—no pain—something on top of her and it hurts, is _hurting._

Death should not hurt, and is she not dead?  Why, then does she hurt?

_Wake up._

Awareness does not come slowly, but all at once, and for a moment it is _too_ much, _too_ bright, _too_ sudden.  Then, she draws in a breath, coughs on the smoke, and realizes that she is not aware _enough._

It is burning, _everything_ is burning.  Around her is fire and ash and rubble and—she, in the middle of it all is naked, in both senses, nude and defenseless.  Curiously, one single finger remains gloved.

(Later, the Valkyrie suit will be found, crushed beneath rubble, a body still inside it, unrecognizable after the trauma of having a building dropped on it—and Angela will claim before the United Nations Investigative Council she does not remember who was in the suit that day, will say she has no memory of what transpired.  But from the suit she will learn what it is that, deep down, she knew from the moment she woke: she died.  She died, and the Valkyrie system could not save her—it only exists to ferry souls back to her bodies.  She died, and she lives again only by the grace of her previous work, her Asclepius system, repairing that which should not have been reparable, with only one finger to work from.  She died, and she lives, and she is so, so glad that she destroyed her previous research.)

Angela stands on legs weak as a newborn foal’s, and makes her way out of the ruins of the base.  At that moment, she does not think of much beyond _survival_ , and it is not until, hours later, having been wrapped securely in a blanket and taken to a hospital elsewhere to be evaluated for possible brain trauma, that she begins to think again.

What she thinks is this: she was wrong, she did not live—she _died_ , and then survived death.  What she thinks is this: she was wrong to have tried to defeat death, and lucky to have recognized her error when she did, before she could inflict this upon anyone else.  What she thinks is this: she was wrong, death is not _inevitable_ , but it is, perhaps, preferable.

 

## ii.

In the immediate aftermath of the end of Overwatch, Fareeha does not learn anything she did not already know.  Somehow, Angela survived the day—but that means little, when Fareeha was privy, already, to the knowledge that sometimes a change in decision can prolong a life—and Fareeha is grateful for it, even if Angela comes back _changed._

Well, why would she not?  Surviving such an event would traumatize anyone—particularly when, as a doctor, Angela is used to _helping_ in such crises, and not being confined herself to a hospital bed during them.  Fareeha feels a bit guilty about this; she knew that Angela was soon to die, and said nothing, thinking that there was no point in warning Angela of her upcoming death, that the inevitability of such would only cause her undue stress and unhappiness in her final hours.

How was Fareeha to know she would live?

(From what Angela said, in their final conversation before the explosion, Fareeha is relatively certain that she did not know her fate at the time.  It is entirely possible that, given Fareeha’s ability to feel the words of those she commands, Angela could not feel that what she said, then, was meant to be their last farewell.  Perhaps, years before, she had been one of the people Fareeha ordered to help her sneak into the gym, or the shooting range—it is not as if Fareeha kept track—and there is no connection between them, at all, not a fated one.  It is not as if Fareeha could _ask_ if Angela feels anything; no one since her mother has been told of this ability of hers, so the question would make no sense.)

Still, that question leads Fareeha to wonder if she might have done more—not only for Angela, but for those who did die, if she might have warned someone, somehow. 

To what end?  Everyone dies.  That, she learned from her mother.  What good would it have done to have raised some alarm, only for those who died to do so in fear?  And surely, someone else _did_ warn them—but, likely, it was brushed off.  People do not speak of when their time is coming, do not waste their words in doing so; those who are close to them will know, already, will feel their dialogue dwindling in the preceding days.  No one says that they are soon to die, and it is not inconceivable that, especially in a military institution, everyone simply assumed that it was their _own_ death they sensed, and not _everyone’s._

(After all, where could be safer than the Headquarters of Overwatch?)

Everyone dies, Ana taught Fareeha this.

Everyone dies, but not when and how you believe they will.  This, Ana does not say—does not need to, her letter teaches the lesson for her. 

The timing of her mother’s letter could not be worse, but, then, perhaps there is no _good_ time for such a thing.  Up until that point, Fareeha has been coping with the event relatively well.  Yes, many of the people she grew up knowing died, and yes, the organization she had worked her entire life to join had been disbanded, but if she learned anything from her mother it is that everyone and everything must have an end, no matter how great they seem, and the end of Overwatch does not come as a surprise, only the method by which it is ended. 

If her mother could die, why not Jack and Gabriel?  Why not Overwatch?

(Years later, she will wonder if, perhaps, she was only in denial, but at the time she did not believe so, only felt as if she was reacting logically to the situation.  What else could she have done?  How could anyone make sense of such an event?)

Until her mother’s letter, Fareeha mourns Overwatch, but knows that its end was inevitable. 

Then, and only then, does the truth come out: Ana did not die—or, _Ana_ died, but her body lived, even if it did so by becoming someone else. 

(Fareeha will accept this truth long before she understands it—and when she does understand it, many years later, it will no longer be so important, for her mother will live again.)

Death is not what Fareeha thought, it can take many forms.  Then, the guilt returns, and for the first time, grief sets in.  People died, and they did not need to—not like that, not yet.  People died, and Fareeha did not—could not?—save them.  People died, who might have lived, and there is no undoing that, for death may not be what Fareeha thinks it was, but it certainly is _final_ , and she has no means, now, of changing this.

It was easier, to believe that everyone is fated to die, and there is nothing which can change that; to know differently is painful, for it is to realize that all early deaths are a human failing, all tragedies are preventable.  Another woman might have been stuck down by such a realization, might have been rendered invalid by guilt or grief, or a combination of the two, but this _fuels_ Fareeha, for suddenly, she sees a new purpose.

While it is true that her dreams of joining Overwatch can never come to fruition, there are other ways in which she can ensure justice is done.  Perhaps she cannot help to be a moral compass for an organization which badly needs one, but she _can_ , armed with this new knowledge, save people, can fight their fates, and win—a different means of achieving an old goal.

Death is inevitable—but its manner and time are not set in stone, and that is enough for her to protect the innocent, will have to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hopefully u... enjoyed? probs the wrong word. but u know. hopefully you... liked reading it...? eh. w/e. 
> 
> so here we go! angela and fareeha are... establishing a relationship. although they are still Just Friends^TM. more on this next section. when they finally get together. ish. they dont fuck til the end y'all.


	11. X

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lfkajsdklfasdfa so this chapter WAS originally something entirely different, and then at like... 20:50, i was like ACTUALLY i should probably not just start in the middle of recall. probably. i think.
> 
> so i banged this out in under two hours because i am powerful. 
> 
> but also like now im really like smdh bc why tf did i bother writing all of this ahead of time this summer if now im jsut rewriting things every damn week!

_PART FOUR_

_The future is uncertain_

# X.

Overwatch is dead.  It is dead, and it is gone, and it will never, ever live again.  This, the people know.  They know it in the same way that they knew Overwatch would end, in the same way they knew Overwatch would save them, in the same way they knew the Omnic Crisis spelled the end of humanity, in the same way they knew the Omnica Corporation would save humanity, and so on, and so forth, for as long as any of them can remember.  They know it because they have been told so.

(Of course, none among them will say _I know it because I saw it on the holovids._   No, they will say: _I know it because it is true._ Or, _I know it because I can feel it, deep down in my heart._ Perhaps even, _I know it because it is self-evident._ )

Of course, the words they have heard are not empty ones: the PETRAS Act certainly lends such claims of the end to Overwatch a good deal of weight, as did the sworn testimony of several ranking officers following the explosion at the Swiss Headquarters.  Few members of the chain of command survived the explosion, and those who did were quick to disavow their former organization, at least publicly. 

So, why would Overwatch return?  Why, when those who dedicated their lives to it have renounced it?  Why, when reorganizing would be highly illegal, and dangerous to boot?  Why, when they have no one left to lead them?

Yes, it is obvious that Overwatch is dead, gone, finished.  Though some may wish for it to return, given the rise of civil unrest around the globe, given the situation in Russia and South Korea, given the wave of Talon attacks which are now taking place—though some may wish for it to return, it cannot.  

It cannot, for it is dead, and everyone knows that the dead cannot rise. 

(Never mind what Angela knows, what Fareeha does: they do not speak of their experiences, nor do the few others like them sprinkled about the globe.  Better not to mention the impossible truth.  No, _everyone_ says that the dead cannot rise, even if they know otherwise.)

No matter what may come, no matter what may befall the world, some things are _true_ , are immutable fact, are set in stone and cannot be changed.  One of them is that death is inevitable, and that things, once dead _stay_ that way.  This is one of the few certainties of life, is among the few guarantees in an increasingly unstable and uncertain world, and the people cling to it.

 _Overwatch is dead_ , they tell themselves, like a mantra.  They say it when others propose solutions they do not like, and they say it when they think too fondly on the past, and they say it when they think they see a familiar silhouette on the horizon, only to realize it was only a passing shadow.

In times like these, people cling to certainty: they may not know all that lies before them, but they do know this, _There is no future for Overwatch, and there never will be._

 

## i.

When the PETRAS Act passes, a part of Angela is relieved.  Now, she need not be compelled to kill ever again.  Now, she need not perform operations under orders which do not necessarily meet her own ethical standards.  Now, she need not worry about explaining how, precisely, she survived the explosion.

It is simpler for her, that Overwatch is dead, is better for her.  This, she tells herself, repeats over and over, time and again, for five years, until she at last she finally begins to believe it. 

(Never mind that with Overwatch died the only family Angela had.  Never mind that with Overwatch went nearly all of Angela’s friends, all of those whom she loved—or was destined to—in the world.  Never mind that with Overwatch Angela’s hopes of truly ever defying death were destroyed.  She cannot think of such things, will not, for if she did—well, what would be left for her?  How could she ever move on from such a loss, if she confronted it?  To come back from losing everything _once_ nearly destroyed Angela, so she cannot allow herself to believe that she is doing so again.)

After all, if it were not for the explosion, how would Angela have learned what her technology was capable of?  How would she have been stopped from being tempted back into continuing her research?  Yes, she had abandoned Project Asclepius for two years, prior to the explosion, but who knows what might have happened, in time.  Who knows if she would have done the unthinkable, not knowing the consequences of her actions, the potential of her technology.  Yes, her Valkyrie Project might be further along, if augmented by that research, but at what cost?

No, it is far better that Overwatch is dead.

(After all, as Angela well knows, there are things far worse than death.)

Sometimes, particularly around the winter holidays, one of the others will contact her, will contact all of them, will say _We could change things,_ will say _In the good old days…_ , will say _It does not have to be like this_ , and Angela will shake her head, and sigh.  There is no point in arguing with them, and she worries, of course, that the hope will hurt them—but who is she to rob them of it?  Is it not enough for her, to know that Overwatch is gone?  Why worry?

Why worry, when Overwatch is gone, and will never, ever be coming back.

Few things in Angela’s life are certain, particularly now that she has taken to travelling wherever she is needed, living out of a single large duffle bag and her Valkyrie Suit, moving from crisis zone to crisis zone.  One of them is this: her time as a researcher is over, and the world is better for it—who would have saved the lives that she has, were she locked away in some lab?  One of them is this: even if she wanted to return to the past, she could not, for Overwatch is never coming back.  One of them is this: no matter where she goes, no matter which of her old contacts disappears, is lost to time and distance both, Fareeha will be there for her.

One of the few good things to come out of the end of Overwatch, one of the things she never doubted, even when everything else was in question, even when she had to repeat to herself _Overwatch was shut down for a reason, maybe it is best it stayed that way_ over and over until she fell asleep—one of the things she never doubted was this: her life is better for having met Fareeha.

When Overwatch fell—she could not talk to her former colleagues, could not talk to her friends there, did not know what she would tell them, how she could possibly justify what she was feeling.  When Overwatch crumbled, Angela nearly did with it, would have, were it not for Fareeha, were it not for the fact that they had become close, in the wake of Ana’s loss, were it not for the fact that said death helped Fareeha to understand what it was Angela was going thought.  When Overwatch ended, Fareeha helped her to begin a new path in life, suggested the first new location Angela dispatched herself to. 

Overwatch is dead, and Overwatch is gone, and finally, five years on, Angela is grateful for that.  When she looks at the work she is doing, when she sees the people she has helped, when she falls into bed exhausted and _proud_ of what she has accomplished that day—she is happy with how her life has turned out, in the wake of Overwatch.

Is the family she formed at Overwatch gone?  Yes, some of them, but Angela lost one family already, and has survived thusfar without much of her second.  Those who remain are enough for her, at the end of the day.  With her work, she will honor the memory of the rest, will carry on the legacy of heroism they began, will ensure that they are not forgotten.  She will light the Yahrzeit for them, and say the prayers she must, and that will suffice.

In the first year following the explosion, she checked her Overwatch communicator she still carries with her many times a day, reached for it before her new holopad.  In the second, she checked it twice a day, once in the morning and once at night.  In the third, she checked it only in the mornings.  In the fourth, she checked it only occasionally.  Now, five years on, it lies almost forgotten in the bottom of her bag.  Sometimes, when Fareeha says something that makes her particularly nostalgic for the past, or on a painful anniversary, she pulls it out, runs her fingers over the insignia on the surface—but no longer does she expect it to sound.

Overwatch is dead, and gone, and the communicator will never sound again.  Angela may not know where tomorrow will take her, may not know when she and Fareeha or any of her other friends, her _family_ will meet in person, may not know if she will ever truly make sense of what has happened, in her life, but she does know this: Overwatch was shut down for a reason, and it _will_ stay that way.

How easy it is to forget that the future is uncertain, that none alive may truly know it.

 

## ii.

As soon as her mother’s old communicator activates, Fareeha knows what the call means, and knows, too, how she will respond.  Once, already, she missed her chance to join Overwatch, and she will _not_ fail again.  She had found a new purpose with Helix, has enjoyed her work—but she has always known it was not what she was meant for, not truly, for how can she protect the innocent when she has no choice in where she goes, and what objectives she must prioritize?  No, beholden to a corporation is no way to dispense justice.

With Overwatch, however… with Overwatch, she might make a difference.

(She knows, of course, of the history of Overwatch, knows well its flaws and the things the United Nations bid it do in the name of justice, but this is not _that_ Overwatch, is something newer, freer, better, is something she herself can help to shape and to guide.  Is that not what she always dreamed?)

Her position as a Captain in Helix and rank as Ra’id in the Egyptian Air Force are enough for Winston, the new leader of Overwatch, such as it is, to offer her command of her own strike—once they have enough members to fill a second one.

It is a dream come true, and only one thing could make it better—if she could tell her mother of this, hear Ana say that she approves.

(At the time, Fareeha is not in contact with her mother, not truly, having received a single letter from her and never having replied, but the day does come, two years later, when Ana reaches up to pinch at her cheek, smiles and says _I am proud of you, Habibti,_ says it, and _means_ it.)

Lacking her mother’s approval, and the means obtaining it, Fareeha will settle for this: the knowledge that, with Ana “dead,” she need no longer worry about living in her mother’s shadow.  Even if some of the others first met her through her mother, even if her mother’s legacy looms large, this new Overwatch is something that Ana never touched, is something she never owned, is something that is Fareeha’s, and Fareeha’s alone.

This will be _her_ legacy, and she will not share it.

Not with Ana, at least.

In the first days, it is difficult, establishing herself as someone other than Ana’s daughter, particularly when, while waiting to have enough members to establish her own strike team, she must serve under Reinhardt.  He is her childhood hero, and a capable officer, but sometimes he looks _through_ her, and must see only the girl she once was, or, worse, her mother standing in her place. 

 _Patience_ , she reminds herself, _patience and time._ That, too, was her mother’s domain, as a sniper, but she, too, can embody this virtue, if only she sets her mind to it.

Still, it smarts, when Jesse tells her she is her mother’s daughter—he means it as a compliment, she is sure, seems to have had the utmost respect for Ana, but that does not make it better, does not make it sting any less.

(Years before, Fareeha vowed she would never become her mother.  Years from then, her mother will tell her she had the same wish.)

That night, in a call with Angela, who is currently in the less irradiated part of the Outback, she mentions it, voices her fears for the future, for her _present_ , for what her past will continue to mean to her.  Angela tries to soothe her, to say that the others are living in the past, too, that all of them are haunted by it and Fareeha—she cannot resist the urge to snap back that Angela knows nothing, Angela is not _there_.

To say such was unfair; Fareeha saw what the end of the first Overwatch did to Angela, but once said, it cannot be taken back.

Nevertheless, she makes to apologize—

—And is surprised when Angela does the same, goes so far as to agree.  After all, is running from one’s past not, too, being defined by it?

So it is that Angela comes to join her, fills the final empty position on Fareeha’s strike team, and in doing so helps to redefine her role.  First, Fareeha being able to command _in fact_ and not in _in theory_ allows her to prove herself to her colleagues, to show her abilities, and to do so in contrast to her mother—Ana was many things, but she led only when she needed to; Fareeha was _born_ to lead.  Second, actually commanding gives Fareeha a better sense of her words with the others, helps her to feel more secure in her place.  Third, and equally important, is the fact that Angela knows better than to treat her as some part of Ana’s legacy, and seeing the two of them interact seems to encourage the others to do the same.

On the day Jesse apologizes, both for not speaking to her all those years when they were children, still, and for having not seen her as her own woman, she knows that things will work out for the best.

This is her destiny, to lead within Overwatch, Angela, her friends, and colleagues at her side.  This is her destiny, to rewrite the legacy she was born into, not to build upon or improve her mother’s, but to make it her own.  This is her destiny, to live as her own woman, not as the echo of another.

This is what she was meant to do, and though it may not be her perfect world, though she may not have ever gained her mother’s approval—that is impossible.  For Fareeha is certain that Ana is never, ever coming back.

Her future, her path forward, her own legacy seems so certain that Ana’s second letter comes as quite a shock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next chapter begins... relationship Things >:D finally
> 
> although they're kinda there already? they just havent realized lmao.


	12. XI

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my dumb ass forgot to update last week bc aco dropped and i love bayek more than life itself. also i already 100%d it. while doing nanowrimo and working and studying full time. i havent slept in days. it was worth it though. so fucking worth it.
> 
> angela is like... expressing some unhealthy views abt fate and codependence here in this chapter but i promise that is a part of her story arc and she will... in fact... learn and grow past that. and begin to understand that love & destiny cant solve all her problems. SO WILL FAREEHA. they're on this journey together.

 PART FOUR

_The future is uncertain_

# XI.

The return of Overwatch shocks the world.  Whether they agree with the Recall or not, the truth of the matter is that next to none anticipated it.  Why would they have?  With the way Overwatch ended, it seemed unlikely that a return _could_ happen, let alone that the members would _want_ to return—and, yet, they do.  They return because they want to, because they have to, because this is what the world requires of them, because being _needed_ is how they make sense of the world, because Overwatch is the only place some of them could ever call home, such as they are.

(This is the part the historians will never get right, when they talk about the return of Overwatch, the _why_ of things is a mystery to them.  The particular appeal of Overwatch, the intangible thing which makes it a family, a place to belong, is something no outsider could capture or comprehend.  For the heroes within it, it is not just an organization, not just a purpose, a goal, a dream, it is a _home_.  When people are scared, when they need reassurance, they return home.  Such is the way of things.  So, in a way, the return of Overwatch was inevitable, even if the why of it invisible to those on the outside.)

For those on the outside, the Recall is something to watch in awe—whether that awe be classical, and tinged with fear, or more colloquial, a thing of beauty and wonder—and something which prompts questions.

( _Do we need Overwatch?_ people ask.  _We did just fine without them, we survived,_ some will say.  _Surviving is not the same thing as truly living_ , others will answer, and they will be right.  _But even Overwatch could not ensure that_ , is not an uncommon response—and that, too, is true.  Overwatch was many things, to many people, and it will continue to be so.)

Since the Fall of Overwatch—and, in truth, before it, before anything—the world has been in chaos, but one thing seemed certain, that Overwatch was dead, and gone, and never to return, and now, here it is, a _Recall_.  No matter one’s position on Overwatch itself, the Recall is threatening, for it challenges one on the few certainties left to the world, one of the scarce universal truths, that dead things cannot live again.

But even in doing so, it reaffirms another, older truth, a thing learned in the very Crisis which spawned Overwatch itself; everything about Overwatch is a contradiction, is neither one thing nor another, is a mess of not only this- _or_ -that but this- _and_ -that. 

So even as Overwatch disproves one truth, it affirms another.  _The future is uncertain._ No matter how clear it may have seemed that Overwatch was gone, was lost to the world forever, no person, human and Omnic alike, can know the future.  No person can say _this what will be_ or _this shall never come to pass_.  No one can know, and no one will know.  Words provide some assurance, perhaps, but even they fail people, in the face of things such as Overwatch, Recalled, reborn.

The future is uncertain, and all who claim to know it are made fools.

 

## i.

Returning to Overwatch is not what Angela thought it would be; is not so much an opportunity to right past wrongs, to fix current ills, as it is to reunite with people she thought lost to her.  It is a selfish endeavor, but one she gladly embraces.  By now she knows that there is no fixing the world, no saving everyone, no stopping death—but there is this, a place where she feels she belongs, where she can do as much good as she is able, where she knows that she is not alone.

(It does not feel secure, in the early days of the Recall, feels like a dream or a holiday, a little respite from what she has thought, until that point to be true, that she is destined to be alone.  She will not truly allow herself to grow too attached to the Recall, will not allow herself to feel as if she is settling in, for many years yet—but it will happen, eventually.  When it does, _she will not tell them I did not believe we could succeed_ , she will not tell them _I thought we were doomed to fail again_ , she will say only _I had my misgivings, but you convinced me to stay_.)

Most of those present she has worked with before, and a part of her fears becoming attached to them, lest they leave again, be lost to her again; others she has never known, but she fears building too great an attachment to, lest things end again the way they did before; but Fareeha, _Fareeha_ is different, is someone to whom she is already close and someone whom she has never lost, never need fear losing.  It is for Fareeha Angela stays, for Fareeha that she forces herself to open up, and form attachments yet again, for even if she loses the others, she does not want to disappoint Fareeha, does not want to risk what it is that is growing between them.

And there is something, there must be, because she knows, now, that Fareeha feels words between them, too, because a slip of Fareeha's tongue revealed it, and that means that the two of them must be destined to be _something_.  Friends or, perhaps, even lovers. 

(It is unexpected, when Angela finds herself hoping for the latter; the brief trysts she has engaged in to this point have been with men, and for all that they have been only for pleasure, and not for love, they have been satisfying, and more than.)

Perhaps it should not surprise Angela that this is so; after all, she and Fareeha have spoken daily for nigh on seven years, yet it _does_ surprise her, for she has lived her entire adult life with no confirmed connections, and so to have one now, after thirty years without, is a feeling she cannot begin to put into words. 

So she does not tell Fareeha, does not explain the reason she is so delighted that they share words, only mentions it casually, as if she had none all along, and enjoys Fareeha's reaction to Angela finally broaching the topic, her excitement at the first discussion of something that she must have waited years to speak of.

It is a beautiful thing, to be so secure in one another's feelings, to know that they matter to one another, and will continue to.  Just acknowledging it brings them closer, on the field and off of it, and Angela thinks that yes, this is worth staying with Overwatch for, is worth risking losing all of the others, is worth the worry that accompanies all of her relationships, is the certainty she has searched for since she was a child.

(She cannot help, of course, but grow closer to the others, cannot help but allow herself vulnerability, and in the coming years, she will be grateful for it, will be grateful that she allowed herself the risk, even if she will never know if some of the friendships she made were meant to last—whether they were meant to or not, they do, and Recalled Overwatch does, and taking the risk was, for once, worthwhile.  In time, she will finally begin to see that fate is not all important; in the beginning, however, she knows no such thing.)

Slowly, things begin to blossom into a relationship, of sorts.  Perhaps they do not say that they love one another, do not make promises that the both of them know no soldier can keep, but there is an understanding between them, now that their words are truly known and spoken of, that they are meant to be something more, that they ought to feel secure enough to pursue it someday, if not today.  They just need time, time to adjust to their new roles in Overwatch, time to learn how being together in person every day has affected them, time for Angela to parse what an attraction to other women—to _Fareeha_ —means for her, but they have time.  They have nothing but.  Their words reveal not only that they will know each other for many years, but that throughout them, they are fated to love one another, in some capacity, be it romantic, a deep friendship, or this in between they currently find themselves in.

Fareeha's ability to feel Angela's words is proof of that.

(Or, so Angela thinks.  At the time, it seems a logical conclusion; in her entire life, she is the only person she has ever known who shares words with people, is the only exception to what is otherwise a rule, and even her exception is tied to healing.  Why would she expect that Fareeha, too, is an exception?  Why would she think that commanding forged for Fareeha the same bridge?)

If Fareeha can feel the words of many of their companions--well, Angela does not question that.  Fareeha is personable, is a good leader, and it only makes sense that she would be able to forge a friendship with many of the others there.  If anything, that lends Angela some security, too, for if Fareeha stays close to them, and Angela is to stay close to Fareeha... then surely those connections Angela feels are mutual, too?

For a few months, in the Recall, Angela is secure, in her new home, for she knows she has a future in and among these heroes, has a future with Fareeha and through her is tied to everyone else.  For a few months, things are calm, and they feel like a family, and Angela is foolish enough to allow herself to grow close to the others, foolish enough to allow herself to believe in fate.

Then Ana returns, and Fareeha voids Angela's certainty with one small sentence. 

Fareeha, too, can feel everyone's words.  Angela can be sure of no connection between them.  The future is as uncertain as it ever was.

 

## ii.

For a brief, shining moment, Fareeha thinks that she can establish a legacy outside of the shadow of her mother. With Angela returned to Overwatch, she has control of her own Strike, is not only a member of the Recall but a leader among them. For the new members, she is the only Amari they have ever personally served under, and while she must try a little harder to prove herself to those who are veterans, to differentiate herself from a mother, she is a _leader_ , she strikes from the fore, does not stay hundreds of meters behind her team but fights and bleeds beside them. Perhaps they respect her differently than how they did her mother, perhaps they do not see her as being quite so uniquely skilled as her mother was, but her commitment, her strategy, her abilities in the air are more than enough that, before long, although that respect is different, it is _there_ nonetheless.

(Years before, Fareeha could not have envisioned this, a place where her own legacy is able to exist apart from her mother’s.  Years later, she will realize that such a place never did exist, even in the time before Ana’s return, never could have—and she will be able to make peace with that, if only after she has spoken of it with her mother, has said _I hated you for it_ , and _On the worst days I am afraid I hate you still_.  Only by such an admission is she made free of her fear of living in her mother’s shadow, is she able to accept that a different but _connected_ legacy is what she will have.)

Fareeha is satisfied with that, is content with being judged on a different standard than her mother was, and being found satisfactory—after all, it has never been her intent to truly surpass or supplant her mother, only to be able to have a place outside of Ana's shadow, and for a time, she has one.

In fact, she has more than that, now that Angela has finally mentioned that the two of them share words. While Fareeha understands her reticence to mention it, given that the doctor is still coming to terms with being bisexual, a part of her wishes she had not had to wait seven years for a confirmation that Angela, too, felt their connection. Were Fareeha anyone else, it would not have been necessary.

For those few months, Fareeha is certain of what her future holds: she will be the only Amari in the Recall, will be able to carve out a place for herself among them, free of the burden of always being compared to her mother, and she will do all of it with Angela at her side—and, perhaps, some of the others, although she cannot be certain if the words they share are reciprocated. For those few months, Fareeha is certain of herself, of her place in the world, and she is certain of her mother's, too, is certain that Ana is kilometers away, across the Mediterranean, leading her new, solitary life. For those few months, Fareeha is certainly wrong.

When the second letter arrives, Fareeha swears she feels her whole world shift, just as much as it did with the arrival of the first. This letter is far shorter, is far more concise, is nothing more than an _I will be joining you shortly_ and a _Jack is with me_ without so much as an _I love you_ or an _I missed you,_ is far too short to change so much, but it does, it _does_ , and nothing after Fareeha receives it is ever quite the same.

(Fareeha learns, then, something she will only come to accept many years later: she will never be free of her mother's legacy, will never be judged in the absence of her mother. Eventually, that will not sting so, eventually, she will be able to say she is proud to stand _beside_ her mother, as an equal, building a family legacy together, but such a transition is some years in the making, yet.)

As if the sudden uncertainty of the security of her position in Overwatch—or, at least, her position in the _minds_ of those in Overwatch—was not bad enough, her future with Angela, too, is thrown into question. Nothing happens between them, really, nothing changes, but when she explains that she thought this was meant to be, that she was meant to differentiate herself from her mother here, because she can feel the words of all she commands, she knows instantly that something is awry, just from the way Angela tenses in their embrace.

Then comes the second blow: both of her assumptions were untrue. Not only is she not to be the only Amari in Overwatch, not only is this not her destiny, not only has she not escaped her mother's legacy, but she and Angela do not necessarily share words, are not necessarily bonded, for Angela being able to feel words between them is as little a guarantee as Fareeha's own. None of the things she believed to be fated truly are, and she is no closer to finding her way out of her mother's shadow than she ever was.

(Later, she will be able to explain better to her mother the anger that she felt at her return, will be able to put into words how it was that their reunion could complicate Fareeha's own life so, will be able to say _Not all of the things for which I punished you were fair_ and to be able to hear in return _I forgive you,_ and to know that implied there is _just as you forgave me._ At the time, however, Fareeha is not able, yet, to process all that she is feeling, the joy and the anger and the loss all at once.)

In that moment, Fareeha realizes what a mistake it was to think that she could know her fate, to think that things could be so easily laid out for her; the future is uncertain, and it always has been.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> angela is bi in this fic bc why not. i always waffle in fics w her whether she's bi or a lesbian who went through a long period of compulsory het but in this one. in this one! she is bi. and fareeha is a lesbian.
> 
> also yes they are still dancing around a relationship but this fic is tagged slowburn for a reason. no straight path towards these gays getting together. hah.
> 
> anyway thanks for coming to my ted talk. ive been up for like three or four days straight.


	13. XII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> nano continues. also counting this chapter i REwrote 7.5k words of fanfic today, on a lark. kms but also im the most productive bitch in the universe.
> 
> now if only i put that energy into writing new shit and not shit i was gonna post anyway....

PART FOUR

_The future is uncertain_

# XII.

Once, it seemed that Overwatch was a certainty, that it was unassailable, was too important and too grand to ever collapse, was going to continue to exist as an institution for the foreseeable future; now, this has been proven untrue.  Similarly, it was believed that Overwatch was dead, was gone, was destroyed and unable to ever come back, no matter whether or not the people wanted it; this, too, has now been proven a lie.

What, then, is the future of this new, recalled Overwatch?  Once immortal, once destroyed, now returned, even if it _is_ diminished.

(Some say _Overwatch will fall again._ Some say _This Overwatch will learn from the past, and will stay for decades to come._ Some say _Change is the nature of things; Overwatch did not die, but nor is it still alive, it is simply_ changed _, as all things will be._ Only time will prove one of these groups correct.)

Here is a certainty: no one truly believes that they know the fate of this new Overwatch.  No one truly believes that they can predict the future, not anymore, no one believes that it is possible for an organization to be immortal, or for an idea to ever fully die.  Here is a certainty: when the people think of the future, Overwatch’s and their own, they are uncertain.  Numbani makes this so.

Before the Numbani incident, it seems for a moment as if this new Overwatch is strong, as if it can complete its goal and then be done with, or reestablish itself, whichever its leaders desire, as if it is heading down a certain path, seems as if something conclusive is _going_ to happen, one way or another, seems as if the past of Overwatch has some bearing upon its present.

Then, there is Numbani, is the return of Doomfist, is the emergence of a new hero in Efi Oladele and her Orisa. 

Overwatch could not stop Talon, could not defeat the same man they once imprisoned, and new heroes are rising to fill the void—and it is plain, then, that the future of the organization is not tied to that of its predecessor, is not something which can be predicted based off of what is already known, is something that poses unique questions and problems.  This Overwatch will not repeat its past, either in victory or defeat, is something wholly unto itself.

(When the fate of the new Overwatch becomes apparent, there will be those who say _Just as it was before_ , and others who think of another era of the original organization, and claim _It could not be more different._ Neither is true; Recall both defies the example of its predecessor and follows in it, but the reason for its fate is determined by new leaders, by new foes, by new approaches to problems.  Nothing is the same.)

If this Recall is not the failing Overwatch of a decade previous, is not the golden Overwatch of a quarter century before, the people do not know what to make of it.  They know that it exists, for the time being, but nothing more, do not know if it will continue even tomorrow.  From Numbani, from this Recall, from the Omnic Crisis, they have learned, and learned well:

The future of Overwatch is uncertain, for better or for worse.

 

## i.

Knowing that destiny has not tied herself and Fareeha throws everything Angela thinks she has learned, in recent months, into question.  So many of her actions have been based upon the supposition that she _knows_ her fate, that she knows that she and Fareeha are destined to know and to care for each other for many years to come, that she can extrapolate a greater meaning from this—and now, they are all revealed to have been based upon a false assumption.

(Decades earlier, when Angela was in school, an instructor told her _No matter how careful your work is, if the assumptions you make in designing an experiment are wrong, your results are worthless._   Always, Angela has designed experiments with this thought in mind—and now she wishes she had acted under the same principle.  Foolish of her to assume anything, no matter how obvious it may have seemed, when a simple question could have avoided all of this.)

Why, knowing that she herself was an exception, did she take for granted that Fareeha experienced feeling words in the same way that most people did?  Why did she read meaning into something where it did not exist?  Where does this leave her?

Before the revelation that she and Fareeha were fated in some capacity—or seemed to be—Angela never considered a relationship with another woman, and now she finds herself questioning the conclusions she reached in the past months.  Is she truly attracted to women, as she assumed she was, or did she push herself to imagine a deeper relationship than truly existed because if _they_ were fated, then she could avoid her fear of dying alone, of living the rest of her life unloved?  Is she attracted to Fareeha, despite the fact that she cannot know if they are fated, or was she simply desperate to assuage her own fears? 

(If she could imagine herself with Fareeha, romantically and sexually, in those few short months, but never acted upon such thoughts, is that evidence for or against her bisexuality?  She did think such things, but the lack of action—does that mean that she was on some level truly unattracted, or simply afraid to acknowledge a truth about herself she avoided for so long?)

Normally, it is Fareeha to whom Angela would go, when faced with questions such as these, but here and now, such is not an option.  Firstly, because Angela does feel rather embarrassed to not know these things, especially next to Fareeha, who Angela knows has been an out lesbian since her early teenage years.  Secondly, because the matter of attraction is concerning Fareeha herself, and besides it being an embarrassing question to which there can be no impartial answer, it seems rather rude to tell Fareeha that she _might_ be attracted to her, or may only be desperate to feel loved by _anyone_ and be grasping at straws.  Thirdly, Fareeha’s problems at present seem much greater than her own; not only has Fareeha just learned that the nature of their relationship is likely not what the two of them assumed, but she must also deal with her mother having returned from the dead, and the ramifications of that both personal and professional.

(Years from now, Angela will tell Fareeha of these questions, will look back on this time with some amusement and sympathy for her younger self.  They will laugh, then, and Angela will be glad that they are able to, are still there, in Overwatch together, even decades later, and can laugh at such things, knowing that they are in the past.)

So, Angela does not say anything about the matter to Fareeha, nor does she speak of it to anyone else.  Instead, Angela deals with the problem as she has done so many others in her life: she ignores it, in favor of something else.

This time, it is not her work which consumes her, is not the realm of nanotechnology or impossible question of immortality which distracts her, but Fareeha, in an entirely different context.  Not Fareeha as a potential romantic interest, or Fareeha as person from whom she can seek advice, but Fareeha her friend, Fareeha the woman, Fareeha who is dear to her, and who is struggling at the moment with her own problems, her own doubts, her own demons.

Rather than worrying about her own fate (her own loneliness, her own sexuality), Angela focuses on the matter of Fareeha’s, focuses on the problem presented by Ana returning to them—even if, admittedly, Angela does not see her return as a problem at all.  After all, Ana and Fareeha are very different people, with very different skills, opinions, and attitudes.  One could never supplant the other.

Angela tries to explain as much to Fareeha, tries to list the ways in which they are different, finds herself noting all the ways in which she greatly prefers Fareeha—and then has to scrap that idea, for she knows Fareeha well enough to know that her (not-fated?) friend would dismiss such as biased, no matter how true it is. 

Then, she tries to assure Fareeha that no one compares the two of them—and, again must stop herself.  Certainly, it is untrue, and it would not do to lie to Fareeha, would be pointless.  People will _always_ compare them, on some level, it is not a question of if, but to what degree, and whether or not Fareeha will care.

Finally, Angela considers the final part of Fareeha’s issue with Ana’s return, the fact that it is not her fate to be the _only_ Amari in this Overwatch, that it is not necessarily her fate to lead them, to be known for this and to create a legacy in her own right.  Angela finds herself wanting to advise Fareeha that it does not matter if she is _certain_ that she has a future with Overwatch, that not knowing her fate is not such a terrible thing, that even if Fareeha is not destined to _stay_ with Overwatch, it does not mean she cannot make a name here for herself, in the meantime, does not mean she cannot achieve great things and be happy. 

Fate is not everything.  One need not be certain that what the future holds in order to make an impact in the meantime; at one point, Angela herself believed it was her fate to best death—and now she knows that is patently untrue.  Did she not do good things in the meantime?  Did her work not affect great change?  Did she not save lives, even unable as she was to know her future?

The future is uncertain, and Angela realizes suddenly, that she does not mind that so much, either in Fareeha’s case or her own.  The future is uncertain, and so she will try to do what seems best in the moment, and hope that is enough.

 

## ii. 

Of all of the emotions Fareeha expected to rule her, when her mother returned from the dead, anger was the last, and yet it is anger she feels most keenly.  To have Ana return is just another loss, ultimately.  First, she lost her mother, then she lost her sense that death was permanent—and with it, some certainty about the world, and now, she has lost some measure of certainty in her future, in her fate.  Not all of the latter is Ana’s fault, not truly, a part of that is her own foolish assumption about whatever it is that exists, or does not, between she and Angela, but it _is_ revealed as a result of Ana’s return, and so her feelings about it are situated again within the context of that loss.

Several of the others attempt to comfort her, to tell her that this does not matter, that their relationships are unchanged, that her place within Overwatch is the same—but how can that be true, when Fareeha finds _herself_ changed as a result of her mother’s return?

This loss, this uncertainty, it compromises her.  No longer is she sure that this is where she was meant to be, what she was meant to do, and she begins to second guess things—begins to second guess herself, her orders, her right to lead them, and that _does_ cast doubt upon her ability to lead, for if she needed fate at her side in order to keep a level head, needed to know that this was promised her, is she truly fit to lead?

(Somewhere, years down the line, Fareeha will admit that this was a function of her anger, of her fear, will tell Reinhardt—the man she truly looked up to, when leading her team—about her continuing fear that while she has done well, another might have been _better,_ and he will laugh, in the way that he always does, large and full, and tell her _Ach, Fareeha, worrying is what shows you care!_ )

Doubting herself, she puts her strike in danger, and she knows it.  Were she less selfish, she thinks, she would quit, would leave her strike in her mother’s capable hands—after all, Ana has never second guessed even the decisions she ought to have.

 But Fareeha does not cede control.  Even if she _ought_ to leave, a part of her wants to stay, wants to believe that even if she does not have destiny on her side she can prove herself, and, surely, after persuading Angela to come back, she cannot just _quit_.

Fated or not, Angela seems willing to fight for something between the two of them.  Fated or not, having lost all words between them in death, her mother seems determined to rekindle relationships once lost.  Fated or not, perhaps Fareeha can stay, can at least make an attempt to be the leader among Overwatch she knows she could have been, if only for the time being.

After all, the inclusion of her mother does not disprove the rest of what Fareeha believed to be true.  The fact that Ana is here does not mean that Fareeha must leave.  The fact that Fareeha is not fated to make a name for herself here does not mean she is fated _not_ to do so.  It is possible—even if she fears it unlikely—that she and her mother can coexist, that the one being present does not relegate the other to the shadows, that they can have a legacy together and do not need to be at odds.

(Years from now, this will feel childish—why did Fareeha need so desperately to have a legacy?  Why was she so afraid of being in Ana’s shadow, afraid that she would never be anything to anyone but her mother’s daughter?  Why did she have such trouble recognizing her own intrinsic value?  But at the time, it is a very serious issue for her, consumes her with self-doubt.)

So it is out of spite that Fareeha does not leave—not out of love for her mother, who is trying desperately to reestablish a relationship between them, nor out of her feelings for Angela, which have remained the same, despite the confusion as to whether or not they are fated.  It is out of spite that she stays in her command, for if she left, it would surely fall to her mother, and then it would be just one more aspect of herself consumed by Ana’s shadow.

Out of spite, Fareeha does not quit the field, remains steadfast in her decisions even as her mother voices concerns—and learns what it is to truly trust herself, to do so outside of the context of fate.  Perhaps she was snot born for this, and cannot gain certainty from such, but she _can_ still gain confidence from elsewhere, can still be the firm guidance her team needs. 

(In time, she will even be able to find balance again, to have the confidence in herself to know what she _ought_ to get a second opinion on.  For now, this is enough.)

Out of spite, Fareeha does not allow the things Ana has said, Ana has done, to ruin their relationship.  Whether her mother truly deserves Fareeha’s forgiveness or not, Fareeha _deserves_ a mother, and she will not let Ana ruin this for them, will not allow her mother to wallow in self-pity.  Because Fareeha deserves to have, closure, to have a chance to understand the woman who has shaped her in so many ways, she will forgive Ana, will build a new relationship between them.

(Eventually, she will admit to Ana that this was her motivation, and Ana will only tell her _I knew, even then.  But I did not think that I deserved any more than that._ By then, their relationship will be repaired enough for the admission to sadden her.)

Out of spite towards a deity Fareeha has only ever half believed in, she will work to stay in a relationship with Angela, even knowing that he and fate have never been on her side.  If Angela is willing to risk fate—and she seems to be—then who is Fareeha to back away?  Why should she allow herself to be stopped, yet again, from fulfilling the destiny she has long believed was hers?

(And what place has any higher power calling her wrong, when Angela’s hands fit so perfectly in her own, when Angela’s lips taste so sweet against her mouth, when Angela’s breathing falls so easily into sync with her?  Is that not also fate?)

The future is uncertain, but that does not matter, not really, because Fareeha Amari can keep going _despite_ that, can make a meaning for herself where none may truly exist.  The future is uncertain, but Fareeha will still fight for it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> finally... they are together... angela uses the word "gf" next chapter at least once, i promise.
> 
> unless i change it to lover. gf sounds kinda juvenile? sometimes. the vagaries of language.
> 
> w/e w/e
> 
> next time onto our fifth and final part. abt fate.


	14. XIII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i was meant to post this on friday and then like... it was a really shitty day. idk, anniversary of some bad stuff and like... u know. but whatever! im here. if a little (two days) late, with this.

PART FIVE

_Fate is predetermined_

# XIII.

Words are a curious thing—they can be tools of liberation, or of oppression, can be used to free or to bind, can give choice, or remove it.  Without language, humans would still be beasts, and Omnics might never have existed at all, but with it, with the words they speak and the things they say, they chain themselves to their fate.  Each word is a word closer to death—no matter the intent.

Such a thing is not readily accepted by everyone, particularly in the first year following Overwatch’s Recall.  There is talk of a new development in Venice, of a way to cheat death, to speak words which do not count, to take them from others.

(Some say it is unethical—and it is so, but what _is_ ethical?  For someone to gain something, another must lose it, or so claim the people who defend such actions.  It sounds morbid, buying life, but organs and blood plasma and a thousand other, smaller things, have ensured the lives of the poor were given for the wealthy, is this so different?  Because of fate?  What is fate, but a prison of one’s own making?)

Most people do not support the development, or claim as much, but there is one benefit, they think, in this for them: fate no longer seems so definite as it once was. 

For surely, if death can be cheated by one means, it can be cheated by another.

So they try.  They try and they try and they try.

Nothing comes of this but tragedy.

A man who thinks he is dying, because he has no words left for any of his family, goes to the Shambali to try an alternative remedy for his illness—it works, he is cured, and when setting up the celebration party for him, his friends and loved ones are killed by a gas leak and the spark from a stovetop.

A woman with few words left takes a vow of silence.  She says nothing, signs nothing, writes nothing, does not communicate in any way with those she loves, and exists as a ghost in her own home for four months.  She does not know that she talks in her sleep.

A person goes to Venice with their dying lover, volunteers to be a part of the trials for donating words—succeeds, or so they think, feels all the words remaining they had with their partner disappear—only for their partner to die by the soul grafting, the words lost to both of them, time gone and nothing to replace it, nothing at all.

The news is filled with such stories, for a time, all of them heartbreaking, all of them failures, all of them losses of life, but then, with that failed trial—it ends.

( _What fools they were_ , historians will say, _to think that they could cheat fate._ And members of the clergy will preach _We cannot defy divine will, nothing good has come of it._ And philosophers will say that _Perhaps it was not the success of the venture which mattered, but proving we had the capacity to try at all._ )

They were doomed to fail from the start, such is known by all with sense.  This is what those dreamers forgot: fate is predetermined.  Nothing could change that.

 

## i.

Within Recalled Overwatch, Angela’s life is not simple, is not easy, is not a thousand other things one might use to describe settling down—and yet, she is happy.  Finding time to dedicate to her research while the only properly trained medical professional is difficult, she must make decisions on the battlefield which are morally repulsive to her, and there are tensions within Overwatch, about the future, about the present, about the past.  For many reasons, being within the Recall ought to be _un_ appealing, ought to be unpleasant, ought to be anything but what it is: a home.

Even if she does not know for how long she is destined to be here, even if she cannot be sure if this is her place, she feels she can make it so, that she can create a space for herself, for Fareeha, for their love, even without words guiding them, even without the weight of knowing.

(Perhaps, she will later reflect, this was made easier for her by not knowing, by being unburdened by destiny.  Perhaps if she had known they were not fated, definitively, she would not have pursued a relationship.  Perhaps if she had known they were, she would have reacted differently to the risks Fareeha took in combat, to the knowledge that her love might die.  Without knowing one’s fate, there is freedom—not from fate itself, but hidden somewhere in the illusion of choice is the feeling of weightlessness, of uncertainty, of flying.)

The words between she and Fareeha take on a different feeling, once the both of them know that which they _cannot_ know.  Where once there was the weight of anticipation, then the heaviness of fate, there is now the buoyancy of possibility.  Words and laughter slip more lightly off of their tongues—it is easy to forget that death still lurks, when one cannot feel the crush of fate with every passing syllable. 

It is easy but—still, in other ways they are challenged.  Love is never simple.

(It is not simple then, and it will not be in ten years, in twenty.  Perhaps this means they were wrong, and they are not a fated pair, not as lovers or as friends, perhaps this means they were each meant for someone else, and ought not to have tried so hard to carve out a space for one another.  Perhaps that does not matter—they are happy, still.)

Although they do not say the words—not yet—in so many ways the things that pass between them, the jokes, the gestures, the kisses and the silences, they hold their admissions, their confessions, their professions of love.  Neither will say it, and how could they?  In a world where love is something concrete, something knowable, theirs is not and so, still, it is hard to say _Ich ha di g_ _ärn_ or _ana bahebak_ , to put it into the words whose depth will not (cannot) lend it legitimacy.

But they know. 

They know and it is enough because they know it, it is enough because the world has not granted them more, it is enough because they have time, they have _time_ , _they have time_. 

They have time until, one day, they do not.

When they are assigned a mission to Numbani—that is when they feel it, the weakening of their bond, the lessening of their words, of the time they have together.  Vaguely, both of them knew this was possible, knew that they had gained words with others—so why could words not also be lost?—but awareness and _knowing_ , truly knowing, in a way which forces one to understand and to really, fully, comprehend one’s reality; it is not the same. 

Perhaps they are not fated (perhaps they are), but regardless, Angela can sense Fareeha’s fear and, beneath it, her resignation.  In this moment, she thinks that she is fated to die—and why not?  She does not know, yet, what Angela has done, what Angela has built, what Angela has _become_ , and she thinks— _knows_ —that fate is not something one can change on a whim.

Fareeha is a good soldier: she would die for her cause, would kill for it.  Angela has never acquired the taste for either.

The Valkyrie is not the Aesclepius system, it does not raise the dead, does not rebuild them piece by piece, does not change them fundamentally.  It is less intrusive, is simpler, is _better_ , in so many ways—but it is limited.  The Valkyrie cannot raise the dead, it can only ferry souls—half escaped—back into the bodies to which they belong, cannot change fate but it can alter it, within reason, within the right proximity, within the right time frame.

Both of them know that Fareeha was meant to live for longer, they have felt it—and Angela will not cheat death, will not cheat fate (even if, perhaps, she can), for she knows better, now, than to meddle with that which should not be.  Angela will not do to Fareeha what she has done to herself—but she will try to bend fate, for her, will try to bring back that time which this decision has stolen. 

Her lover deserves that much, and more.

When Fareeha falls in battle it is not some spectacular thing, is no blaze of glory or hail of bullets, it is nothing more than a strange wheeze over the comms and the soft sound of a body crumpling to the earth in a flowerbed.  She does not fall from the sky, but slumps over.  Her death is a quiet one, and easy to miss.

(Later, Angela will mull over what happened, how it was a piece of her lover’s own rib came to pierce her heart, and wonder if there is some meaning to that, something beyond just—violence.  She will find nothing, and that will haunt her, late at night, when she rests her head on that now whole ribcage and hears that again beating heart.)

Fortunately words—fated or not—have forewarned Angela, and she is watching for it, is ready.  As she cradles Fareeha’s words in her hand, as if they belonged to her, as if they were meant to be, she realizes for the first time how much of their weight, their multitude, is reserved for herself; it is wonderful, it is terrifying, it is something she cannot dwell on for a moment longer because time is not on their side, not right now.

She plunges Fareeha’s words—her soul—back into her chest, Caduceus staff repairing her heart simultaneously, and hopes it has been enough.

In doing this, in bringing Fareeha back—or, rather, stopping her soul from leaving—Angela thinks she has bent fate, thinks she has done something worthwhile.

She thinks she is enough.  Enough to save Fareeha, enough to fight this, enough to be loved.

But fate is predetermined.  Nothing she does can change this.

 

## ii.

Fareeha does not want to die—she wants to live, wants to grow old, wants time for her love to mature and to change, wants to build a legacy, a future, a better world, wants things which, if she dies now, she knows she will never have.  Fareeha does not want to die, not when she has only just begun the hard work of repairing her relationship with her mother, not when her relationship with Angela has only just begun to blossom into something greater, not when she is only just getting to know her new comrades, with whom she could imagine herself fighting for decades.  Fareeha does not want to die, but she will, if her position demands it.

Once, when she was very young, she asked her father why good people had to die, in the Omnic Crisis.  He could not tell her—but now, she knows, can feel it within herself.  Like her father, she cannot name it, cannot put it to words—for she is nearly out.  She fears she will regret her inability to tell him.

(After being brought back, she tries—and she finds she cannot, not any longer.  After dying she thinks _How senseless a waste_ and wonders _Would I have died for that?_   After everything, she is not the woman she was before.)

Knowing she will die, Fareeha goes to Numbani.  She does her duty.  She serves her organization.  What more can she do, but die and die well?

(Is this not what she wanted?  Is this not a legacy?)

Knowing she will die, Fareeha goes and, when the moment comes, gives up her fight, does not cry out.  What sense would there be, in drawing attention to this, in forcing her mother, her lover, her friends to bear witness to—a success, as a soldier a completing of her duty—a failure, a woman whose legacy trying to choke out a last _I love you_ into the comm before collapsing into a bed of flowers.

She cannot say it.  She has no words left.  All her life she prepared for this moment and to be wordless—powerless—knowing it was coming does not make it easier.  Those who told her it would were wrong.

She almost cries, realizing it, would if she had the energy to, not in sadness but in frustration, in anger, for allowing herself to believe for so long that dying _for a cause_ would make her feel any less helpless, any more worth remembering.

She is still dying.

To what end?

She wishes she had listened to her father, she wishes she had not idolized her mother, she wishes she had told Angela—

—she wishes no more.

At first there is nothing.

Then light.

Pain.

Warmth.

Regret.

For a moment, she wonders if she is being reincarnated—it is not something she ever believed in, but she was dead, and now she is alive, again, and everything is overwhelming and, is that not what reincarnation must be like?

But that is not what is happening, because she hurts, not in an unfamiliar way but in the particular, peculiar ache that accompanies Angela’s technology, the phantom pain of what the healing process ought to have been, all compressed into an instant, and that can only mean one thing.

Fareeha is alive.

But how?

She says her lover’s name and, to her surprise, the words come to her, with as much weight to them as they had before this assignment as if—as if it never happened.

(It did, of course, happen, and in the theater of Fareeha’s dreams will continue to happen for years to come, will happen less and less as time marches on but will, on some level, always be happening to Fareeha.)

Fareeha was ready to die, for duty, for honor, for a cause, and the myriad of other things soldiers are told they must give their lives for.  What she was not ready for was to realize, in those last moments, that none of those things mattered to her, not when she was, in those final instants, the one thing she feared becoming most: helpless.

That, too, does not matter—the not mattering—because she is back, somehow, because Angela has _brought her back_ , because she has a second chance and she will do better, this time, will not be shot down, will not fall short of her goals, will not give in to fate. 

(It does not matter, but she vows to herself she will not fail again.)

As long as Angela is here, at her side, she thinks she need not fear fate, need not fear words, thinks she can—not escape, not truly, for she _did_ die, but defy fate, in her own way.

Such is not true.

Fate is predetermined.

Fate is predetermined, and she cannot rely upon anyone else to bend it for her.

Fate is predetermined, so for all that Fareeha can stave off death, Angela at her side, they cannot run from it forever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay i promised the word gf was gonna be in this chapter but i swapped it for lover when editing so thats life. i guess. LMAO.
> 
> also i usually dont link fanart stuff but like. PLEASE [look at this gorgeous cover for this fic](http://gloriousdownfall.tumblr.com/post/167424804128/happy-birthday-agenthill-i-thought-such-an) joana made


	15. XIV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is a week after last weeks update, so technically two days late but... i was making regrettable decisions on friday. v regrettable. but i lived bitch!!

PART FIVE

_Fate is predetermined_

# XIV.

A person only has so many words in their life, only has so many things they can say, no matter how much they want to express, how much more they _might_ have contributed, if they only lived longer, if fate only granted them more—more words, more time, more _being_.  A person only has so many words in their life, and when they run out, when they run out they are done, are finished, are _complete_.  The period at the end of a sentence abruptly marks the period at the end of their time on this earth.  Just so.

Perhaps this certainty is why the town of Turinsk meets the end that it does. 

With only 30,000 people, they must have known—all of them—what was going to happen, even if they did not know how or why.  Surely, they must have felt that they were going to die, that everyone around them was, too, must have known what it was that meant.  True, they likely did not know that Talon would spell their end, could not have said if they were to die by natural disaster, or industrial accident, or Omnic attack or—this, but they did know that they were to die, had to have, and yet… none of them ran.  Not a one.

This is the problem with fate: you cannot run from it.

(Some do try, and are branded as cowards, as madmen, as fools, daydreamers, and eccentrics.  Some do try, but they never succeed.  No one can best death, it is said, and it is known.  Perhaps the saying does not make it so—but the believing, that does.)

If words truly are fated, then there is nothing one can do to escape death, even when one knows it is coming.  If one runs—well, then they were always destined to die in the place where it is they ran.  If one man had tried to avoid the bombing at Turninsk, he might have died in a car accident.  If the entire city had spread across the globe, all trying to get away from one another, they might have carried an unknown contagion.  Fate is immutable, and they were _fated_ to die, their words told them so.

(Nothing, then, is known of resurrection by the public.  Nothing is known of the way, sometimes, some commanders feel the fate of their soldiers change.   Nothing is known which might lead anyone to believe fate is anything other than absolute.)

So the people of Turinsk did not run from their deaths—and why would anyone?  Is it not better to die with those one loves, in a place one knows, surrounded by what is good and comfortable and familiar?  Is it not better to face one’s fate, and to accept it?

For this is known: fate is predetermined.  By the words one has at the time of one’s birth, one’s life is set.  One cannot change it, so why try?  Fate is predetermined, so why try to run?

## i.

For a time, Angela manages to stay near to Fareeha, to ensure that they are always posted at the same Watchpoints, that they are always sent out on the same patrols, that they are always dispatched to aid in the same crises.  Perhaps it is not efficient, is not the best means of ensuring Fareeha’s safety, but it works, and she knows she cannot risk anything else.

She knows, also, that she cannot trust Fareeha not to die again, knows that Fareeha might still choose duty over living—over her—and while cannot stop Fareeha from making that choice, would not try to, she can mitigate the consequences, can ensure that Fareeha can do her duty and—not avoid death, but come back from it. 

It is an important thing to her, even knowing the potential consequences, that the choice still be there.  They cannot know if they are fated, they have _chosen_ to be together, and if Fareeha chooses to die for her duty rather than to live with Angela, she must recognize that choice as equally valid. 

(In five years, in ten, when the way in which they understand fate and their world has changed even further, Angela will not regret this, will not regret allowing Fareeha the choice to live or die by her own values, her own decisions, even if she did not understand, before, what it was she was accepting, what it was she was agreeing to.  Even uninformed as she had been, her reasoning was sound, and she can rest easy knowing that her decision was the best one she could have made.)

Still, it troubles her.  It is one thing to know, recognize, and accept that Fareeha must make her own decisions, that Fareeha can choose to do with her life as she pleases—it is quite another to be happy with that decision.

For all that Angela _wants_ to see this differently, to understand how it is Fareeha must think of such a thing, in what light and given what considerations, it remains difficult for her, on an emotional level.  Knowing that Fareeha would willingly die, even if that meant leaving Angela behind, forcing Angela to be alone again—that feels like a rejection.

She knows, of course, that it is not one, knows that Fareeha loves her, and that her lover choosing what is best for herself is not a repudiation of Angela, is not a sign that she has been judged and found wanting, but again, knowing and feeling are not the same.

It has taken her years to accept, on an emotional level, that those who came before—her parents, her old friends, all those who were dear to her—did not abandon her.  Sometimes, she is angry still.  Fareeha knows this about her, and _still_ she chooses the possibility of death, _still_ she chooses to risk leaving Angela in the same way.

(In twenty years’ time, Angela will finally ask _Why?_ And Fareeha will tell her _I did not believe I had a right to choose that others might die, over myself.  I did not think my life could possibly be worth another’s_ and Angela will weep for the woman Fareeha once was, will hold her, solid and warm and whole and _alive_ in her arms and be grateful, so grateful, that Fareeha learned selfishness.)

Of course, Angela is aware of the selfishness of her own feelings, of the desire for Fareeha to love her enough to set aside something dear to her—her commitment to duty—knows that she could never ask such a thing of Fareeha, or of anyone.  However, knowing cannot stop her from _feeling_.

All her life, Angela has been praised for her selfless work, dedicating her time, her energy, her abilities to saving others, and for her entire life, Angela has felt as if she is living a lie, for she knows the truth—she is selfish, selfish beyond all measure.  When she went into medicine, it was done knowing that she could feel words that way, gain some semblance of a connection, a mimicry of the love others felt; when she joined Overwatch, it was not because she believed in them, but because she could gain funding; when she developed her Valkyrie system, it was not for the benefit of the many, but was done so that she, and she specifically, would have the capacity to bring back the dead, was so that she would never need fear being alone again; nothing she has ever done has been selfless, and she _knows_ this, does not hide it from herself.

Selfishness is Angela’s greatest sin, her greatest failing, and every day Fareeha risks herself, Angela’s fears are twofold: that she will lose Fareeha to death, and that she will say something, will try to stop Fareeha, will not know her place, and will lose Fareeha to her worse nature.

Even so, her selfishness has consequences.

In choosing to stay at Fareeha’s side, Angela endangers the others, their Strikemates, their colleagues, their _friends_.

Thinking nothing of it, Angela declines the emergency mission to Turinsk, makes her excuses as to why she thinks Ana would be a better choice for that operation, and while she does not _lie,_ she is not entirely truthful, either.  At the time she does not regret it—does not think anything of it, only knows that by so doing she will be free to go with Fareeha back to the Temple of Anubis.

At the time she does not regret it—but when Hana is injured, then Angela realizes the cost of her mistake. 

The injury is not fatal, only nearly so, but because Angela was not there when it occurred, Hana is in terrible shape by the time she is returned to Gibraltar; the guilt of that would be bad enough alone, but worse is what comes next: the realization that Hana’s words are perilously few.

In that moment, it becomes apparent to Angela that if she leaves, Hana will die—but Fareeha’s words are low as well, and if she does not go, so, too, will Fareeha die.

Two futures stretch out before Angela, in all of their infinitude.  In one, Fareeha dies, and Angela is, again, alone.  In another, Angela saves Fareeha, but at the cost of their relationship—for she knows Fareeha could not, would not love a woman who chose to let another of their friends die.

If Angela could be in two places at once, if she had not destroyed her Asclepius notes, if she hand gone on the strike with Hana for the first two days—if, if, _if._

Ifs do not matter; fate is predetermined, and she is destined to lose Fareeha, in one way or another.

## ii.

When the time comes, again, that Fareeha is asked to die for Overwatch, for her strikemates, for the innocent lives she has sworn to protect, she does not know what to think, does not really think _anything_ , is only certain that, come what may, Angela will protect her, will bring her back.

Everything about the two of them defies fate, defies _what is known_ and _what must be_ , from their ability to feel words as uniquely as each of them does to the very nature of their relationship—an unfated pairing.  Why would she think this would be any different?  Why would she suspect that fate _would_ catch up to her?

(In ten years, in twenty, she will laugh at how naïve she was, to think that any of that mattered.  Angela will not find it so funny, will gripe about it until Fareeha distracts her with a kiss to the temple, another to her forehead, the top of her head, her cheeks and her eyelids, until her thoughts are once again on sweeter things.  They will grow similar with age, but they will never be _the same,_ not in the way fated pairs often are—but it will not matter, for they will be happy nonetheless.)

In the present she feels invincible—or, perhaps that is not quite right, for she _knows_ that she can die, that she will, but also knows that, so long as Angela is by her side, that does not matter so much.

She feels invincible, and it helps her to save more people than she might have otherwise, to take risks which she knows would otherwise be deemed unacceptable, to become accustomed to doing so.

She feels invincible, until Hana is retuned to them in critical condition and she realizes, suddenly, that she is not, that none of them are.

For so long as Angela is with them, they will not, cannot die, not truly—but Angela cannot always be there, and therein lies Fareeha’s problem.

Already, she has died for her cause, for her duty, for justice—once, even, she thought it final.  She has suffered an early death, knows how it felt, how it will feel again, futile, fruitless, finished. 

Can she endure that again?  Knowing what such a death is like, knowing how it is she will think of her sacrifice in those final moments, knowing that she has, that she _will_ regret it—can she force herself to make the same choice?

(Years from now, this might feel foolish, might feel reckless, might feel like the product of hubris—but she does not have years.  All she has is this moment.)

Knowing that it will feel like a mistake, can she still choose death?

It is what it right.  It is what is expected of her.  It is what is good, and just, and honorable.

It is what she will do.

How could she not?

She does not want to do it, does not _want_ to die, but does she have a choice?

Even when she tried to fight death, tried to run from it, thought she had found a workaround, fate intervened, in the form of Hana’s near death—and she could not ask Hana to die in her place.

Such is antithetical to her character.  There is no justice, no honor, in one woman dying for another’s destiny, no righteousness, no integrity, in fleeing from her fate, no fairness, no decency, in expecting a woman who—no matter how accomplished—is scarcely more than a child, to die for her commanding officer.

Moreover, if Fareeha made such a choice, could she even say _she_ lived through it? 

No, not when to do so would betray all that she has stood for, fought for, died for—it would be, still, a death, the death of a good woman and soldier, even if her body yet lived, would be akin to killing herself, as well as Hana.

Nothing about running would be right, nothing about fleeing her fate would make any difference for her; either way, she shall die.

Either she can die a coward, or she can die a hero.

Either she can die the woman, the protector she was meant to be, or die little more than a shadow of her former self.

Truly, it is no choice at all.

If she feels regret when she imagines dying again—well, that is normal, is to be expected.  She does not want it, no, does not want to leave Angela, does not want to even _think_ of what this will do to her, to be alone again so soon after learning to trust and to love again, but what can Fareeha do?  What could anyone in her position do? 

(A memory, only a scant five months before, a thought, _Not like this, not now, not yet, I’m not ready, I want to, I need to, please please please I love—_ )

Fareeha does not want to die, Fareeha is not _ready_ to die, but she is certain, now, that she never will be.  Fareeha does not want to accept this end, but when she has tried to escape death, has thought she succeeded, even, it has found her yet again.

Fareeha does not want to die, but she will.  Everyone dies, sooner or later.  That much she has always accepted.  So why not her?  Why not now?

Fareeha does not want to die, but fate is predetermined—birth guarantees that whatever we were before we were born _must_ die.

Every end has a beginning, and every beginning has an end.

Fate is predetermined, and it says this will be hers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> originally this chapter was smut but then i was like... ooh nah. this is tbh better. ill probs release the smut separately later or smtg


	16. XV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i bought in flight wifi while flying to a funeral in order to post this on time so hopefully y'all appreciate it lmfao

PART FIVE

_Fate is predetermined_

# XV.

For a few days, Turinsk is in the news.  For a few days, there is discussion of what ought to be done in such situations, of the bravery exhibited by the citizens in staying, of the implications the attack has for the rest of the world.  For a few days, people care—and then, something else happens, some other story, and those who died are forgotten, are relegated a footnote in history books.

(Nothing will be said of them, in the years to come.  Once in a while, the town will be mentioned in relation to other attacks of the era, but otherwise, it will fade from memory entirely.)

Such is the way of the world.  People are born, and people die.

If one’s death is particularly horrific, it might take on a life of its own, become memorialized and warped in the public consciousness, twisted to a political end or morphed into a macabre curiosity, a legend in its own right—but this is worse than to be forgotten, is a curse in and of itself, to become nothing more than something that _happened to_ oneself, and not a human beyond that.

Death is sad, death is cruel—but it is commonplace, also.  A death can feel like a tragedy, to those who lived, but it is not truly, is little more than a product of inevitability.  No person will live forever, no person can.  What sense is there in pretending it is not so?  What sense is there in running from death when, eventually, one will die anyway?  What sense is there in delaying the inevitable, knowing that the legacy of every birth is a death?

To run from death is more than cowardly, it is foolish—so perhaps it makes sense that the story of Turinsk is so quickly forgotten.  What happened to them _had_ to happen, and they did what was is expected, nothing more, nothing less; what makes for good journalism is the _un_ expected.  What more can one say of Turinsk, other can that they did their duty, and now they are gone?  Does the public owe them more than that?

Does the public owe _anyone_ a memory, particularly when what they did was die?

It is not as if the people of Turinsk asked to die.  Their fate was simply to do so, and they did, as all people must, as all people will.

What is so memorable about that?

Surely, it is better to remember people not for their fate, but for the way in which they conducted themselves, for their characters, for their loves, interests, and desires.  Why are legacies so important?  Why is one’s destiny such a great matter—that has little to do with a person themself.

Perhaps what truly matters is not one’s fate at all, but what one does with knowing one’s fate, with knowing that one will die.  Fate is predetermined, after all, one has little hand in that.  Fate is predetermined, but one’s reaction to one’s fate is not.  Fate is predetermined, but that is, perhaps, not so important.

 

## i.

Time has never been on Angela’s side; too much of her life has been spent trying to do as much work as possible in the least amount of time, trying to save people for whom she knows every second counts, trying to bargain for just a few moments more, so that those patients she cannot save have the opportunity for one last goodbye.  Time has never been on Angela’s side, each passing moment putting her last with her family, her friends, her mentors further and further behind her.  Time has never been on Angela’s side, so she ought to have accepted such by now, ought to be used to loss, to thinking of time as a measure of the distance between two people, two places, two lives.

In school, she learned that gravity stretches time, and if she were a more poetic person she might think something, now, of how the weight of the few remaining words between she and Fareeha, the heaviness with which each is said, stretches moments between them, creates a distance that should not be there.  But Angela is no poet, not in the way Fareeha is, and she thinks instead only of how unfair this is—how unfair that she should lose someone again, should be alone again.

(Years before, in the aftermath of the explosion, Angela swore she would never pray again, could not owe allegiance to anyone who would allow such a thing to happen—and she does not break that promise now.  Instead, she curses whomever, whatever put her on this planet, in this life, and told her to _endure_.)

A not insignificant part of her is angry—is furious—with Fareeha, for choosing to through with this, for showing so little regard for both of their lives in so doing, for being willing to die for _what?_ For an ideal? 

What place have ideals in a world such as theirs?

Perhaps, if Fareeha had more words, Angela might argue this, might try to impress upon her what a mistake she is making, how foolish this decision is, how important for _both_ of them—but she has promised herself, already, never to treat Fareeha as Ana did, never to act as if she has the ability or the right to tell Fareeha what decisions she ought to make for herself, and, in truth, she does not _want_ to argue with Fareeha, not ever, but especially not now.

There will be time for bitterness later.  Let their final memories be as happy as circumstances allow.

Seven words.  That is all they have, this final night, and Angela does not want to waste them.

She thinks, then, of words left unsaid, of a phrase she thought she had time, yet, to say a hundred times, a thousand, more.  To say it in her own dialect would be four words, which feels too wasteful, when other languages say it in less.  It might sound better, ring truer, in her native language, but she has not any words to waste.  There is Fareeha’s own language, also, which needs only two words—but she worries she will fumble the pronunciation, will stutter, will waste words in that way instead.

So she says it in English, wastes three words of their seven on a declaration of love which goes unanswered.

Here, for a moment, time moves too slowly, and Angela comes up with a thousand explanations in the span of a few seconds, thinks to herself _She never loved you_ and _It would be a lie, to tell you that she did_ and _Fareeha is much too good to lie, even now_. 

(If they had more time, that insecurity might have eased, might have not been ever present, always waiting for the opportunity to flare up again.  But they do not.  All they have is this moment, this final evening.  Four words remaining, and Fareeha leaves in the morning.)

But she is much too far ahead of herself, for a lack of an answer is not a rejection, is not a sign that Fareeha does not want to return the words.

This much is obvious when Fareeha holds her, so close that they begin to breathe as one, is obvious when Fareeha’s lips press to her, move against her skin as Fareeha mouths over and over the words she cannot say, not now, perhaps not ever, is obvious in the way Fareeha clings to her when she moves to rise, afterwards, intending to brush her teeth before she sleeps.

(Later, she will wonder why she slept at all, why she did not want to stay awake and simply _be_ in Fareeha’s presence, for as long as possible, but now—now is not the time to be rational, to do things the _right_ way, is a time of doing only what one can, in the moment.)

When Angela returns to their bedroom, after spending perhaps too long staring at herself in the mirror trying to work up the courage to say something—anything—to change Fareeha’s mind, she sees that Fareeha has been crying, and realizes something that she ought to have sooner: Fareeha does not want herself to die, either.

In leaving, Fareeha is not rejecting Angela, not truly, not choosing a mission over her lover, for she would stay if she felt it possible, but it _is not_ , not for Fareeha, brave and selfless, strong and just, honorable and steadfast.  Instead, she is doing all that she can, feels just as trapped and helpless as Angela.

Again, she thinks of how unfair this is—but this time, not how unfair to her, but how unfair to Fareeha, to choose between her values and her life, to die in her early thirties, when she has goals lofty enough for several lifetimes, and so many people who care for her, in the present.

Angela does not forgive Fareeha in that moment, for she realizes there is nothing which needs forgiving.  Fate is predetermined, and it was selfish of her to wish Fareeha could fight it.  Fate is predetermined, and it never intended for the two of them to be.  Fate is predetermined, but the two of them tried to fight it, anyway, and that is proof enough that Fareeha loves her, enough for a lifetime.

It has to be.

 

## ii.

 _Four words_.  This is the first thing on Fareeha’s mind, when she wakes on her final morning.  She has only four words with which to say everything to Angela that she needs to, only four words to make up for an entire life together lost, only four words to comfort and apologize and justify all at once.

It is, she thinks, an impossible task.

(Fareeha is not bad with words, is not ineloquent, but still, she decided long ago that she prefers action, said as much after another of her mother’s many attempts to placate her, and it remains true.  But if she has only time for four more words, she certainly has not the time to _show_ Angela all that she ought to, has not anything near it.  _I love you_ , her mother told her then.  _So show me!_ she had shouted in reply, and now she realizes the impossibility of such a task, the inadequacy of—anything, in light of the emotions she is feeling now.)

When Angela said she loved her the night before, Fareeha had wanted to reply, wanted to say _I love you, Angela_ , using up all their words, and neatly so, but it did not feel enough, so she waited, waited until now, when it still does not feel enough, and she has come no closer to unravelling what it is precisely she is feeling, to best distill into words.

Surely, Angela must know that Fareeha loves her, she must have shown her—tried to, the night before, and in the months before that, in a thousand different little ways—and so perhaps Fareeha need not waste words on a declaration, a confession, a profession in one.  Perhaps she can save them for something else.

But what? 

What could possibly encompass everything?  She doubts she could say everything she wanted, even if she did have decades—and she does not.

That is another matter, the injustice of it all, that she should die now when she has only just found her place, only just begun to truly make her mark in the world and to better it.  She will die, now, saving the lives of a few on this mission—but for what?  What of the hundreds, thousands of other people she might have helped if she lived longer, what will happen to them, if she dies today?

They will die.  All of them.  They will die and it will be her fault, for she will not be there to save them.

(She does not think, then, that perhaps someone else could do the same—because if someone else _could_ take her place, then what need would there be for her to go today?  What sense would there be in this sacrifice?)

She will die, too, because she is unable, unwilling, to choose her life over that of another, because to do so would be to betray the ideals she has espoused her entire life.

But she does not want to, wants desperately not to die, wants to run from this, to live longer, to have a chance at helping more people, in bigger ways, a chance at true reconciliation with her mother, a chance at _showing_ and not only telling Angela how much she loves her, over a lifetime.

What can be done?  What can be done, when Angela loves the woman who would give her life for a stranger, when her friends respect her commitment to honor, to duty, when she sacrificed her relationship with her own family because she believed that personal sacrifice in the name of something greater was always justified?

How would she tell them she was a coward?  How could they love her, if she is no longer the woman she has claimed to be, her entire life?

But is this all she is?  Is she only honor, justice, duty?  Is she ideals, or is she a human being?  A woman, just like any other, who laughs, and cries, and has fears—a woman who, just like any other, desperately does not want to die.

Will she truly sacrifice that, for an ideal?  Surely the people who love her love her also for her terrible jokes, for her passion for poetry, for her questionable music taste.  Would it truly matter them so much if she betrayed her ideals, just this once?

She must be more to them, more than just a set of principles.  They would forgive her for faltering, just this once.

She is a human, and humans are oh so fallible.

(If she does this, she knows, others will die.  She will never know them, she will never see them, but those whom she could have saved, on this mission, will have no future.  She is trading her own for theirs and it is selfish—is against all that she stands for.  If she goes through with this, she will dream of them, in the decades to come, will learn their names and faces from the news and _never_ forget.  But how many more would die without her to save them in the future?  That final thought is _almost_ comforting, and she clings to it, even as she knows that one cannot weigh lives against one another.)

A part of her wishes she had prayed more, so she could ask Allah for guidance now, guilt free. 

She does not pray.  She calls Jack. 

The two of them still have words, enough for their flight in the dropship to their destination, and for the mission which will follow, enough for right up to the moment of Fareeha’s death—enough to waste a few, now, if this does not work.

She calls Jack, and when she is done, she emerges again from the bathroom, walks over to Angela’s side of the bed, where her lover is sitting, hands twisted together in a knot of anxiety, and says what may be her final four words, should they be ill received.

A deep breath in, just the one, to steady herself, and then, she speaks.

“I called in sick,” says she, and nothing more.

From Angela’s face, she can see she made the right decision, and when Angela _speaks_ to her, says an _I love you,_ _says_ it, Fareeha can feel it, too, can feel all their words once again, knows she has the freedom to say, now, what she will.

She responds in kind, as if Angela did not already know, as if she had not made such clear by her willingness to fight fate, yet again, in order to stay.

Fate is predetermined, but nevertheless, one can fight it, one must. _  
_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and that, as they say, is that.
> 
> well, except for the epilogue. i intended to post that sunday but again, funeral, and so ill upload it as soon as i have wifi again, which may be a bit after that, probably on my monday flight back or tuesday... 
> 
> shoutout to those of you who have stuck with this for so long... hopefully my next project is over sooner, but i doubt it
> 
> EDIT: also the epilogue is already available [on my tumblr](http://agenthill.tumblr.com/). if u like my stuff u should follow me there bc there are some things there i dont post here & i sometimes take prompts etc etc


	17. INFINITAM

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> had to lock this fic for a few days after accidentally emailing it to someone irl... oops!
> 
> but its here now. the epilogue

EPILOGUE

_Uncertainty_

# INFINITAM.

 

What happens after?  What becomes of a world which has seen each one of its intractable truths, its fundamental constants, violated and disproven?

Does it change?  Does it reform?  Does it reconsider the limits of the possible?  What does it do, given the magnitude of this transgression?

Nothing.

Nothing is changed by what happens between Angela and Fareeha, not in the greater world—for their lives are not so important as all that, or not to anyone else, at least.

No one will know what Fareeha did that morning, no one will know that she fought fate, changed it, for love and for herself, for the hope of a better future.  That day will not be remembered as one in which everything changed, in which the rules that govern all life were not only bent, but broken; indeed it will not be remembered at all, not for much of anything, not even for the deaths of the people Fareeha might have saved, in sacrificing herself.

In the wake of this revelation, this violation, nothing will change, and the world will be no better for it—and no worse.

Why should it have been?

In the end, Fareeha and Angela are just women, and nothing more—sometimes selfless, sometimes selfish, always human.  They are no more significant than anyone else, and no less, save for in the eyes of one another.

 

## i.

What happens to Angela is this—

—she overcomes her fear of loss, and realizes that Fareeha has loved her all along, that she does not need fate to tell her such.

—she still fears losing Fareeha, still fears dying alone, on her worst days, and perhaps she always will, but she makes peace with that fear, and in the end, it is proven unfounded, for Fareeha loves her to the last.

—she never restores her Asclepius work, for she thinks she has challenged fate more than enough for one lifetime, and she is happy with that decision.

—she never restores her Asclepius work, but she sometimes wishes she had, when she sees the deaths she could not prevent without it.

—saying _I love you_ becomes easy, like breathing, and she says it over and over again until the words cease to sound like words at all, to her ears, ten thousand reminders for Fareeha that her decision was the right one.

—saying _I love you_ is remains a struggle, for it comes with the acknowledgement that to lose Fareeha would hurt her greatly, comes with a vulnerability she does not want to open herself up to, but she says it anyway, every day.

—she finds her place with the Recall, and all is well with the world.

—she never quite makes peace with Overwatch, and gradually transitions to doing more and more relief work, and her lover, her friends, and her comrades respect her decision, even if they do not always understand it.

 

## ii.

What happens to Fareeha is this—

—she is glad she did not die, that day, and does her best to put it out of her mind, when she can.

—she is grateful to be alive, but still the guilt follows her, that others died so she might live; Angela is helpful, when she confides in her lover, has been through much the same as a doctor, and they work through the guilt together, and are happy nonetheless.

—she makes peace with her mother, and the two of them have a stronger relationship than they ever did when she was a child.

—she is always somewhat at odds with her mother, but it is not a terrible thing; both of them love one another deeply, and they know their conflict is born of concern.

—she tells Angela she loves her, every day, and one day their love for one another becomes big enough for a family, and it takes time, but she convinces Angela that the two of them should have a child together.

—she tells Angela she loves her, every day, and when one day her wife treats an orphan who is much like a young Swiss girl decades before, almost _too_ much so, she bends to her wife’s desire and they take the child in, even though they had no plans to have children.

—she finds her place in the Recall, and achieves her childhood dreams.

—she realizes that Overwatch is not right for her, and one day decides that she can fight no longer, laying down her weapons and trading them in instead for a pen; she wins awards for her poetry, and still her words change and shape the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> originally the epilogue was some trite shite w a baby and some symbolism and i think this is objectively better. also ur free to choose any combination of the possible endings u wish cause thats kind of... the idea of them shaking off fate... ig
> 
> anyway its been A Time thank u for reading this far and i hope the end was... satisfactory? somehow? idk. hopefully u didnt finish this and walk away like "wow i read all of that for NOTHING?" lol

**Author's Note:**

> So I'm planning to update this once a week for the next 16 weeks! Which sounds like a lot but really isn't! I've got it all written out on paper so I'm certain it can be done.
> 
> Title comes from 1D's You & I. Which is a really good song. I swear.
> 
> Please consider reading a comment if you're enjoying this story so far, and if you're _really_ enjoying it I have a [ko-fi](http://ko-fi.com/agenthill).
> 
> Thanks for reading!
> 
> Rory


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